Harold had few dealings with werewolves in the past, in fact he made it a point of it to avoid them and their undead brethren.
There was something about the undead that caused Harold’s stomach to tie itself into knots before trying to escape via any route possible.
His squeamishness stemmed from the undead’s ability to avoid, well, death.
Death for the undead was no longer final, it was a reason to become angry, immortal and in most cases, slightly more pungent than when they were alive.
In this werewolf’s case a lot more pungent. That was of course unless pre-death, they smelt like a wet dog dipped in lard.
“Excuse me,” Harold said addressing the snarling beast, “but would you mind not attacking me today, you see, it’s been one of those days, you know? And, well considering I don’t want to die, how about you take this small child behind me?”
The werewolf stopped undead in its tracks.
“I thought knights were supposed to be honourable,” the werewolf snarled.
“Common misconception apparently,” Harold said.