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“Rather obviously, a werewolf.” An elderly gentleman stepped from the inn, calm as a patron after a meal, holding a walking stick but not really leaning on it. “And not one of those crappy little German ones, mark you, dancing about and wanking at the moon.”
But Jakob of Thorn was actually in the lead, sitting stiffly, a man locked in a mortal battle with the weather. One in which there could be no retreat, no surrender, and no victory.
