The Werewolf Stalker
Redna's nose twitched in the humid night air and her lips peeled back in disgust: wet dog smell. Sinking her now extended claws into the soft bark of a tree she eased her way up into the branches for a better view. Her own scent was disguised enough with the thick stench of mud -- she had covered her skin in it earlier. Only routine precaution.
The pack of mangy wolves was moving ever closer to her hideaway, but she remained still. Only the feline glint of her eyes in the moonlight might give her away.
The wolves were in human form, half-naked, and walking back from the ocean as if they had just gotten back from a romp in the salt water. Gross. It was all she could do to stand the bath after a scavenging foray to rid herself of mud and dog stench much less willingly slip into the ocean for a quick dip.
Still half-transformed, Redna had underestimated the day's heat; her human side was beginning to sweat profusely. Unable to move, a few droplets of sticky mud slipped from her body and pattered down right in front of the mutts.
"Mud?" a female werewolf with shaggy black hair asked, leaning in to get a better scent, "Since when do trees-"
"They don't," growled a blonde wolf, his shoulders broadening with aggression as he stared up into Redna's tree. In unison, his four companions followed his gaze. Redna could feel their gazes burning her pelt, "So you're the one they call Werewolf Stalker."