The full moon hung heavy in the sky, casting long, eerie shadows that danced across the terrified faces of the villagers huddled together for protection. Fear had gripped Bagbinda, the recent attack on the shepherd a chilling reminder of the dangers that lurked beyond the village borders. Tormented by the unsettling dreams and the growing darkness within him, Azhar felt a primal hunger stir, a yearning that transcended reason.
The night air was thick with the scent of fear and the metallic tang of blood. As the moon reached its zenith, a strange calm descended upon Azhar. The world around him seemed to fade away, replaced by a primal urge, a need to unleash the beast that clawed at the surface. He felt a tingling sensation spread through his body, his muscles hardening, his senses sharpening. His eyes, once brown, now glowed with an eerie, predatory green.
Unconsciously, he slipped out of the village, drawn by an irresistible force towards the forest's edge. The jungle, once a source of solace, now felt like a familiar embrace, a place where he could finally succumb to the darkness within. He moved with a silent grace, a predatory elegance that belied his human form.
He found his prey - a lone hunter, venturing deep into the forest for game. The man, unaware of the danger lurking in the shadows, whistled a cheerful tune as he navigated the dense undergrowth. Azhar watched him, a predator stalking its prey, his senses heightened, his body pulsing with raw, animalistic energy.
As the hunter rounded a bend in the path, Azhar sprang. The attack was swift and brutal, a blur of motion in the moonlight. The hunter never saw it coming. One moment he was whistling a cheerful tune, the next, he was met with a wave of searing pain, a crushing force that tore through his defenses.
The transformation was complete. Azhar, no longer a man, but a creature of the night, unleashed the fury of the beast within. His movements were fluid and deadly, a symphony of claws and teeth. The hunter, a seasoned hunter himself, stood no chance against the raw power and ferocity of the Were-Tiger.
In the aftermath, Azhar stood over the lifeless body, his senses reeling, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The taste of blood, metallic and sweet, lingered on his tongue. The fear that had gripped him earlier was replaced by a chilling sense of power, a terrifying awareness of the beast he had become. He had tasted blood, and the hunger, once a distant whisper, now roared within him, demanding to be fed.
As the first rays of dawn pierced the darkness, Azhar, back in his human form, lay hidden amongst the undergrowth, the memory of the hunt still fresh in his mind. The transformation had taken its toll, leaving him weak and disoriented. But beneath the surface, a primal satisfaction simmered a dark joy that chilled him to the bone. He had tasted blood, and he knew, with a certainty that both terrified and exhilarated him, that this was only the beginning.