The pounding of a heart, a full moon. Terrors and dark woods and searing pain. It feels as if she is being ripped from limb to limb. The transformation. She tears herself from the memory, and searches on. Fenrir leans against the wall of a dim and cold room, his eyes darting between something in the shadows and a group of men. She can feel the weakness overtaking his body, muscles sore and overworked, heart beating faintly. She sees the moon from the window, in its waning. He must have been ambushed after the full moon, when he was at his weakest. 