The knight, with the agility of an action star, almost turns around in time. Almost. But you're faster; after all, you're a werewolf, not a pizza delivery boy. You strike the guy with your fangs first, rip him off his horse, and throw him into the snow. You're a tank, four hundred pounds heavier than the guy, but he has the agility of a frightened slug and wriggles out of your grip.
He abandons his rifle, probably realizing you're more lethal up close, and draws a combat knife. He does some escrima moves that look like choreography from a bad kung fu movie, and as he shows off, you swoop down with your claw and rip his face off.
He slams face-first into the snow, his blood vaporizing in the cold, already dead. Too easy. You force yourself back to control as a cloud of iridescent flies blinds you with their garbage sheen.
"Well done, little wolf," says the knight's dead horse. He speaks. Its mouth, filled with blood, opens. You see swollen teeth and enormous incisors. Before you can process the insanity of the scene, the horse turns and kicks you in the chest. So hard it throws you against a tree trunk, which, luckily for you, was already dead. You stand up, the taste of blood in your mouth, and the horse, now the real threat, comes toward you.
So far, everything had gone according to plan. Everything was perfectly rehearsed. The undead-talking-horse part wasn't in the script. Now is the time to think fast. The mutilated horse advances. You feel the blood in your mouth, your breath coming in fright. Now it's for real. There's no room for error.