Werewolve

Feran the blacksmith was a good man. Freckled, red-haired, Scottish and a blacksmith. He wasn't going to be breaking any stereotypes anytime soon, but he was well loved and his weapons and tools that he hammered and shaped were of great quality. He was a perfectionist, only allowing the very best swords, arrow tips, and even hinges to be sold or used.

This is why none noticed when he started to nitpick at even the slightest problem. This link of chain was asymmetrical, this sword's blade was chipped by the tip, this nail is slightly bent.

And then he started coughing. No one's sure when he got bitten, or how, but they know it only started to become suspicious when his occasional cough turned into a hacking fit, and soon he would have to leave the smithy to cough. He was clearly in a daze, the virus infecting him and already starting to transform him.

I just wish someone had noticed! Now there's one more wolf running around, and if I have to go back to Feran's wife and three children with the news that he was killed by poachers... oh boy...

Anyway, the next night, they heard the door creak open, and all they could find of Feran was a trail of blood leading off into the forest. The news spread quickly
"FERAN'S BEEN BITTEN! FERAN'S BEEN BITTEN!" shouted people everywhere, running through streets and alleys full of shops to alert the village.

And then turned up Mrs. Calloway. Or, her coffin, in any case. Ripped to pieces, her grave dug up, no sign of her newly-buried body until the next day, when her half-eaten carcass showed up in the river, face half-skinned and seeming to screech in hate for the creature who'd done this to her.

I sighed, I have to do it now. I could see Feran, or the werewolf formerly known as Feran. He was marking a tree, running his razor sharp claws down it and sniffing the air in an unhappy snarl, and hadn't caught site of me. I stroked the ash leaf around my neck to reassure myself, grabbed shining pair of silver nails I always keep with me, and took a deep breath.
"You! You big-eared, squirrel-tailed slob! C'mere!" I shouted, quite un-lady-like -- but since when have I ever pretended to be a gentlewoman? The wolf turned around snarling and spitting with rage.
"Yeah, you! Y' thick-skulled id't!" He beared his teeth and charged, as angry as a werewolf could be.
I jumped neatly out of the way, adrenaline pumping through my veins and heart beating with the risk of it all. I just told myself that I would not get bitten. I wouldn't let myself. Feran skidded to a halt and spun around, leaping on all fours towards me. I readied my silver nails, glanced down at my ash leaf necklace and drew a quick breath in. It was scary, but exhilarating, this. I sidestepped right in time, and as Feran stumbled past I grabbed his dirty, wiry fur and tugged. He yelped and growled with anger, trying to spin around and bite or scratch me. Again I told myself I would not let myself be bitten, and with a quick and clever move I'd been perfecting since midwinter last year, I had the wolf on his back, my hand on his neck to stop him from rising, my body on his, pinning the werewolf down. I imagined how awkward this must look to someone, and blushed, but pushed the thought away and concentrated on the task at hand.
"Sorry" I whispered into his ear as I bent down close to his head.
I grabbed a nail, pinning down one of the werewolf's paws with it, and in one quick motion pushed the nail down into the wolf's hand.
As a new hunter I would've winced, but I didn't as the werewolf thrashed and yowled in pain as blood gushed from the wound and covered my hand. Quickly switching positions, I instead sat on the wolf's injured arm, hand again across his neck, and reached out to drive the other nail into Feran's other paw. I drove it in hard as poor old Feran redoubled his efforts of howling and yelping. I held the nail there, then quickly got up, grabbing both nails and skipping away from the werewolf. Feran just curled up into a ball, yelping and thrashing around on the forest floor. I took a whistle out of my tunic and blew on it, the piercing sound traveling through the woods and soon I heard the crunching and rustling of Beron and Milter approaching. The two figures, Beron with his white and black speckled hair and strong arms and Milter with his scruffy brown hair and lean frame, pushed through the bushes and appeared with ropes and bandages for the wolf.
"You got Feran!" Milter said with joy. "I'll be glad when he's back to making us silver nails and ash leaves and that sort of thing!"
I didn't reply, just stepped back and let them do all the work of bandaging and disarming Feran. As they bound his wounds and tied his paws and jaws together, I took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from my forehead -- succeeding only in smearing werewolf blood across my face. But what mattered was only that Feran was cured, or almost cured at least, and I would soon be able to return the poor man to his family, and as a human -- not a wolf or a corpse.

If only Beron or one of the others could've done that for me. Me and poor father and Viola...

I sighed.