Polish War Wolves of '43

         Paul hears a noise behind him and whips around, gripping his Kar 98 as he does, the scope clicking in its mount as he turns in fear. He has no clue what the hell he just saw. His unit. His whole unit. Wiped out by these, these walking wolves. Their eyes pierced him as they flowed elegantly in the moonlight of the Polish valley.
         He leans his back against the cold moss covered stones he called his refuge. He looks around, trying to identify the source of the noise. The September chill pierces his thin cotton field jacket. He shivers out of fear and cold. His eyes scan the forest in a panic. In his year and a half of service, this was something alien and terrifying to him. His past four months in this Polish forest had made him used to the nights in the forest, but nothing like this.
         Suddenly a figure is before him. He gasps, his throat clenches, his eyes get wide, he can't move. He utters a squeak and grips his rifle like a fresh trainee in his first battle. His blue eyes catch the shine of the moon as he gazes upon the image presented to him. A pair of bright yellow eyes pierces the night before him, staring unflinchingly at him. He manages to utter a single phrase.
"What are you??"
         The yellow eyes seem to soften and the figure plods cautiously towards him. He reaches up and the figure pauses, seeming to tense up. His breath stops for a moment before he removes his cap, and puts it on the rock next to him. The figure resumes its gait and steps into the moonlight. Paul swallows. It looks like a wolf. A grey wolf, but human. The fur is the same, the face, legs, claws, but not the body. It walks like a person. It carries a stolen hunting knife; its clean blade shimmering in the light. It speaks.
         "I believe I am what your kind calls a werewolf."
It's a female. She speaks in a gentle yet firm voice. Paul puts his rifle by his side and sits, looking fascinatingly at the creature before him.
         "A... a werewolf?" He raises an eyebrow while his brow furrows, confused and intrigued.
         "Yes, although, we have always been wolves. We were not humans that transformed."
Paul is speechless. These creatures are unlike anything he has ever seen before in his entire life.
         "How many of you are there?" He questions.
         "There are many of us. We are a far flung race, as far north as Norway, and as far east as Vladivostok. A race as ancient as the forest itself," She motions to the forest around her as her family, smiling as she says it.
         "yet we are a dying breed..." She states as she somberly looks upon Paul.
         "You came into our lands, stole our property, and when we try to negotiate, you attack us with fire and invisible arrows." She points with contempt to Paul's rifle as it leans against the stone.
         "I'm. I'm sorry..." Paul states. He looks to her and a look of sympathy crosses his face. He had no clue that these creatures of the wood existed.