Slugs and Snails and Were-Puppy Tails

From deep within the church graveyard, atop a weathered slab of granite, a lone snail takes pause to observe a most peculiar scene.

The stalks of it's periscope eyes bend to look down at the loamy soil, of which a pair of large, hairy hands feverishly scratch at. They rake away layers of soft earth and weed, shoveling up damp clods that sail far over a pair of small, hunkering shoulders. The lumps explode in a shower of pebbles, dirt and the occasional worm that rains down a fine mess upon an urn of half wilted flowers.

One stone flicks up and knocks the curious snail clear off it's perch, sending it tumbling into an earthy cavity below. It's shell strikes upon the hard wood of a casket with a loud conk and, almost instantly, the scrabbling creature ceases digging.

Two round and luminous eyes peer into the dark of the pit, accompanied by an inquisitive nose that snorts and twitches. With childlike fascination, a clawed finger pokes at the mouth of the shell and prods the unfortunate snail in the eye. It retracts with a pop and, not taking kindly to the attention, the unfortunate mollusk retreats into the relative safety of it's spiral home.

Said werewolf jumps and, startled, she leaps forward over the stump of sunken gravestone to duck behind it for cover. The creature erupts into a low, warning growl, evidently not pleased at being disrupted during playtime.

Especially not by the likes of Callahan.

Brandy puffs. She doesn't understand a word he's saying, but the indignation in his voice is hard to miss. The growling continues, even as she starts to shuffle out into the moonlight.

Most of her cursed form is thrown into shadow, but her eyes, yellow and sharp, are as bright as a gas lamp in the dark. Her lips roll back to reveal pink gums and fanged teeth, surprisingly clean. Hunting has been poor this night, it seems.

The werewolf does fall quiet, but not by any command of word. Brandy's heightened sense of smell pulls all her attention towards the rabbit, freshly deceased and still juicy. It has her licking her chops in an instant.

She glances at Callahan. Then the rabbit. Back to Callahan. The rabbit...

Brandy coughs out a strange bark, her human vocal chords not designed for such a bestial sound, and starts to edge towards the dangling treat with great purpose.

Still cautious, far too aware of the company she's currently keeping, Brandy slinks low, belly to the grass. Inching close enough to give the rabbit an inspecting sniff -- she doesn't fancy taking chances -- the pup seems satisfied that the food is safe and chomps down on a haunch. The bones audibly crunch between her teeth.

Brandy, quite eerily, keeps her gaze fixed on Callahan as her canines tear away skin and fur. She might be no better than a mutt like this, but she's far from unintelligent - at least on a basic level. She knows better than to drop her guard around threats, be they big or small.

And, in her dog-minded opinion, the hunter is pretty high on the scale.

Blood already cakes her chin and the underside of her nose, Brandy's snapping jaw making short work of tendons, arteries and muscle. She eats messily, not caring in the least that her guzzling makes a deplorable noise.

Her tufted ears pin back and she digs up another growl for him. The werewolf doesn't like the sound of his voice, not one bit. It's always filled with anger and threat - two things of which she could do without, thank you very much.

For a werewolf, Brandy is relatively calm -- and that's saying something, considering she's all bristled hairs and puffed tail right about now. But, where your average werewolf is more likely to gnaw you down to your bones without a second though, this young pup can be reasoned with.

Well, bartered with, at least. An empty stomach and a joint of meat can be quite the motivators.

Brandy has her fill of the rabbit, leaving it nothing more than a demolished carcass of splintered bones and gristle. She paws at it, attempting to free it from the rope so she might drag the remains off somewhere and bury them for later. The bone marrow will make a succulent snack, should she get peckish.

The werewolf groans and starts to gnaw at the bindings, yanking and pulling.

The rope is snagged in Brandy's teeth and she settles for pulling the skeleton over like a dead pet on a leash. She wanders to the opposite side of the grave she so inconsiderately unearthed and, with a series of awkward yanks, the rabbit's remains drop into the hole and smash.

She makes a contented huff, tail wagging.

She doesn't seem to care much for what either Callahan or the late gentleman think of her antics, completely blanking the Irish drone from across the threshold.

With a series of lazy swats from her paw, she starts to fill in the hole with a smattering of dirt that just about covers the rabbit. As soon as the last slither of stained bone is coated, Brandy considers the task done and sits back on her haunches.

Her tail thumps on the ground as she looks at the hunter, clearly irritated that he's still there.

And trot she does, already bored of sitting still for more than a handful of seconds. Brandy chuffs and puffs, making all manner of doggish sounds before she starts to meander through the sea of gravestones.

She throws Callahan a series of wary glances, not wishing to present her back to him so blindly and readily invite the opportunity for a gun to be jabbed at her nape. The man is such a kill joy, always intruding on her fun.

From around the corner of a stone crucifix, the werewolf grumbles.

The young woman coughs up another bark and, just to incite Callahan's ire, she stretches up and starts to claw at the cross. Thick, jagged marks scar the monument, the supernatural force behind her claws making light work of the granite.

If werewolf Brandy were able to respond, she'd not-so-politely inform Callahan that God's plenty cross with her already -- what with the whole cursed life business -- and she sincerely doubts that anything else she does could rock the boat further.

As it is, all she does is yap.

Rocking back on her canine legs, Brandy springs up in one mighty bound and perches atop the wing of statue angel, years of wear and tear giving it the appearance of something half melted.

There's truth to that; Most werewolves prefer the seclusion of dense forests woods, where fresh prey is never short at hand. Of course, that isn't to say that werewolves never stray from the shelter that woodlands provide, especially not if there is a civilization close by. Prey can come in many forms, after all.

Brandy, too, enjoys gallivanting through the trees and undergrowth, running about like a careless pup in the dark. But, being vaguely more tame than your average werewolf, the animal in her enjoys spending some time mucking about near the Clergy -- around people. Callahan not included.

Plus, there's so much stuff to dig up and scratch and lick in the graveyard. Like that slug, a few moons back. Good times.