A strange gypsy was released into the swamp after months of involuntary servitude.  he drifted and drifted, and after a while his raft began to run ashore.  Not far from the strand stood a man in hunting gear.  He had been rigidly trained by this hunter.  How he had detected his mentor's scent even before he had run aground.  He crawled out of the flatboat.  The hunter boosted him, slung him over a powerful back,  and without delay hauled him into the cabin and began tending his wounds.

The tiny spare room was in shadows, lit by a single overhead bulb, and the hunter drew the thick window drapes shut with a snap.

"I can't stay here," the gypsy grimaced with each spoken word.

"You are in no shape to leave, bedouin.  These wounds on your back are fresh and will become infected."

"What remedies do you have?"

"I have aloe and poultice.  The Dark Ones are gaining in power.  You are lucky they did not kill you."

"I am too valuable to them.  They grew frustrated with me and released me.  I didn't give them what they wanted."

The hunter sat.  His bereft mind now focused on the makeshift graveyard at the back of the ramshackle, two-bedroom sylvan structure.  The ghost of his beloved ophelia roamed the darkened rooms.  "Ophelia told me you would return."

"You can see her too?  I thought I was losing my mind."

"The most important thing a werewolf needs to know, you have forgotten.  Never let your guard down."

"One of their females lured me into an ambush."

"Was she worth it?"

"No.  I let my private parts rule my brain.  Found out what feral actually means."

The hunter picked up a piece of raw, blood-smeared flesh, laid it on a chipped porcelain dish and handed it to him.  "Eat, my friend.  You have to keep your strength up.  We may be from different breeds, but we are still brothers in arm."

The sound of thumping and a muffled voice suddenly came from inside the bedroom closet.  The hunter looked at him, motioned with his head.  "Dead meat or live meat, my friend.  The choice is yours."