Gaze.

I turn my face towards the window, gazing at the drifting snow in the streetlight. Higher overhead, another light shines through the haze of the falling flakes - the moon's lamp is a pale ghost in the sky, near full, and calling in my blood.

It is easy to be a wolf in such moments.

-Caller of Winter Storms through Bare Branches in Moonlight, or WinterWolf, or simply Morg; as you prefer.