As a purebred princess of her kind, Anastasja was not bound to moon cycles like the pitiful werewolf peasantry. She was accustomed to hunting and feeding as she wished, not reposing to wait for others.
But it was a duty of her lineage to form and lead her own pack and so she had. She wondered, idly, which of her newly-made wildlings had begun to embrace the sensual pleasures of their lupine state and which still bemoaned their situation. In truth, it mattered little, since either would provide her some semblance of excitement.
If the weak ones turned tonight into another angst-ridden repast, weeping at their bloodied hands and faces, she was not above culling the pack as necessary. To be a wolf was to be strong, to revel in the raw primal power that was the pack. There was no place for tears. Tonight they would howl like wolves or die screaming like prey.