I wrote you a book... 
Morning sunlight filtered through the foggy window, filling the dusty bedroom with an ambient glow. The old mattress protested creakily as its heavy occupant grunted, rising to his paws. He had lost all track of time in here... Hours blurred together, his sleeping fits melting day after day without him realizing it. His wounds were gone; the superficial lacerations that the cruel Corvus Vendetta had inflicted had slowly knitted themselves together, disappearing beneath his thick ebony and white fur. Something inside him had broken, though - he had lost the will to do anything. He was useless. He could not defend, therefore he could not provide, and had stopped hunting altogether after a while. His sense of duty, of pride, had taken a fatal wound. It was only now, weeks later, that he was starting to snap out of his daze.
The big arctic male had left the church one or twice in the past few moons; there was Ril'o's last rites, and he had met Flayra's brother, and Firefly's brother, and... that was it, he supposed, other than the occasional whim to snag easy prey. He had not seen any packmates in quite a while. Were they all okay? Cercelee had wearily supported his mental breakdown, leaving him meals and trying to engage him in conversation, but he had basically become a shut-in. How pathetic. He was a grown man, some five years old now, and he was supposed to be looking after the family of puppies they had adopted... they must be getting big now. Had Catharsis ever come home? His pale blue eyes drifted morosely about the small bedchamber, thoughts dulling the sheen of his gaze. The longer he stayed in this room, the more useless he had become. Dead weight. Did he still have a mate...?
Suddenly his claustrophobia flared - the big wolf in the small room was not happy, no longer in his self-loathing stupor. He needed to get out of here. Needed to see how far summer had progressed, needed to exercise his sluggish legs, needed... change. For once. Change didn't have to be bad. Right? He had changed, since he left his home so long ago, and it had given him a good life - one that he clearly did not cherish enough because he might have thrown it all away - he needed one more change, to show that he was ready. The arctic wolf bit his lip, closing his eyes, anxiety clawing in his broad chest. This is okay, he reassured himself. He was not committing a taboo. It was not a sin. He had to do this.
Adrenaline jolted through his veins, claws suddenly flexing and scraping against the stone floor as they lengthened. Shift shift shift. His black-dipped tail thrashed as he toppled onto his side, back arching violently as his luperci genes were allowed to surface fully for the first time in his life. His teeth gnashed and snapped, appearing to take a seizure on the church floor as his shaggy fur grew longer and longer, his spine twisting and straightening upright, his shoulders broadening and hunching as his forelimbs became arms, his haunches became thighs and shins and legs, his wolf's mane flared like a lion's mane. When at last the shuddering and growing halted - how long had it taken? An hour? A day? - Slay panted hoarsely, curled into a ball. His heart pounded in his chest, the effort leaving him breathless. This was a queer experience, he mused detachedly, peeking at his faded reflection in the foggy window.
He looked completely and utterly different now. Feral. He had more than doubled in size, height, weight... he did not know how to measure his new Optime bulk, but he was fairly certain he would not fit through the bedroom doorframe. The thought made panic rise in his throat, and he choked it down, focusing on his new werewolf appearance. His eyes glittered like ice now, the pale blue having faded to almost white. His white tipped ears barely peeked through the wild mess of black and white hair that comprised his mane. Most of the two-leggers he had seen looked coiffed, sophisticated, stylized... fairly human. He was nothing of the sort. An old-world werewolf, the huge hulking kind that had not mastered the art of walking with stiff knees or straightened back. Was this bad? Had he done it wrong, that he still looked so wolfish and wild? Slay delicately touched his face with a hand - he had hands now, his pawpads were wide like palms, he could flex each finger individually! - marveling at the softness of his cheek. He was an Optime now. He had finally made the final shift. He was still afraid of standing up, for fear of hitting his head on the ceiling, but... he had overcome his last obstacle... Would it be enough to get his life back on track?
I've got soul but I'm not a soldier
