The cabin is quiet. Sven is hunting, the fireplace is warm, and the snow is falling steadily outside. It's quite peaceful. And the house smells noticeably nicer without your werewolf companion. The candles can do their job for once. Eventually though, the door unlocks and Sven comes ambling in with a dead deer over his shoulder. He sighs, a cloudy puff of fog escaping his muzzle.

"Dinner."

He takes the deer into the kitchen and throws it on the table, taking a second to look at his handiwork. He looks at his paw. His claws are getting blunt.