As I ran along the beaten, trodden path, my paws thumping the dusty ground, I drew up short, and turned to my right. The dense pine trees smell was overpowering, almost covering the frightened, feeble scent of my prey. The unfortunate creature stumbled through here, almost dead from its previous wounds. As I crashed through the trees, I came to a clearing, up a small hill.
I saw a deer, my deer, crouched on the top of the mound. The silhouette was small and thin, and as I silently approached it, I noted its stillness. Ha, it was near death already. When I was within 20 metres of it, I sniffed, to see if there were any other prey, and I stopped. There was only a faint scent of deer, not like the strong one I should be expecting. I ran forward and growled to see that my meal was just a rock.
I threw back my shaggy head and howled under the light of the full moon.
The cry of me, my werewolf form echoed the the valley.