Elle laughs a little bit, mostly out of the absurdity of the situation.

"Same goes to you, dude. Don't die."

It's not exactly poetry, but it gets her point across.

Elle reaches into the deep well of Rage that sits inside her gut and tugs at it, letting it rise to the surface and transform her.

As a were-cat Elle is more lithe than the transformed werewolves; she's a weapon of precision rather than an outright death machine. Her war-form maintains a grace and agility that the werewolves lack.

It doesn't make her any less dangerous.

She may not howl like wolves do, but Elle's battle cry is a bone-chilling scream (warning: loud, sudden noise) that pierces the air and reverberates across the faire grounds.

Then she gets to work.