You don't dare stay in this death-hungry form any longer. You scent the air, seeking other threats. Nothing. The fight is over, you tell the screaming monster you've become.
Keep killing. The town isn't far. The People of the Map are soft and weak. You can—
No.
You sink down onto all fours and return to your titan-wolf hispo form. You've learned to plan ahead, so in your wolf forms, you always wear a pack at your hip stuffed with emergency clothing. The pack survived your transformations, but if you turned back into a regular person, you'd probably freeze to death before you could pull your thermals on and reach the Speedway up the road, the one across from the local Amazon hub. You'll need to stay like this until you're within sight of the convenience store.
Right now, you shake the Wolf out of your thoughts and force yourself to plan and think like a person. The Bane is dead, but where are Clay and the others? You need to make a call, and you can't do that without fingers. You check your hip: the good news is that the gear kit you carry in wolf form is still there. The tightly wrapped clothes within it will let you blend back in with the human population. Of course, if you tried to change now, you'd freeze to death before you reached that Speedway. A conundrum.
Next
Garou are not creatures of mindless Rage. The five forms require cunning to use wisely, but also great physical vigor to deploy in the middle of a battle. But you know that not even this monster can stand against a werewolf in crinos form. Letting the Rage flow through you like bloody lightning, you leap, twisting through the air to avoid a scything hoof, then land on all fours and grit your teeth.
Then it's like your teeth turn inside-out, ripping through your jaw, piercing your brain. The pain is incandescent as your bones shatter and re-knit, your spine transforms, and you rise up on two legs, a nine-foot-tall walking wolf with dinner-knife claws and huge, hooked fangs. For a moment, you're both blinded by a shockwave of superheated steam as your accelerated metabolism reacts with the freezing air.
When you can both see again, the horse-thing scoffs—an oddly human sound. It's not impressed, certainly not insanely terrified, the way regular humans fear a werewolf's crinos form. It rushes you, cat-quick, fangs bared.
You twist and drive one hand up under its jaw. Your claws explode out the back of its head, smoking with brains. You both skid backwards and your clawed feet leave a furrow of snow as the monstrous thing keeps trying to move forward, mindless and implacable. But when you both stop, you wrench your hand out of its head and it drops without a sound, already dead.
Next