a hairy tale [open]
The first attempt, Rossiel supposed, had been some rushed, incomplete thing ere her rescue that left her something more akin to her own King, or to the bear-men at the edge of their Wood, than to the werewolves of the old stories. Elf and wolf remained, for the most part, separate and the one knew little of the doings of the other; though she’d no choice in which shape was hers at any given moment.
This time, the process had been more thorough and far worse to endure -- though endure she had to, for her spirit was woven so tightly into the beast-body that she could not slip such bonds in the Elven manner of last resort, and her own desires wrestled with the body’s simple want to survive.
Something neared, though she’d not yet learnt to discern what by smell, and she hoped dearly that it was not food. She’d held one small victory in refusing to eat what was given to her (for Rossiel did not want to think about what -- or who -- the meal of the day might once have been), but she knew that if she kept up her protest long enough, the wolf would tire of starving and wrest even this choice from the hands she no longer had.