More than one. [It takes damn hard decision making, but he decides it may be best to drink his vial of Cat rather than risk it in this forest. He slips the tube from the loop of leather and thumbs out the cork stopper, swigs it, then replaces it with a grimace. The ingredients stimulate the mutant part of him, gripping him like a fist by tightening every muscle in his body momentarily. A sharp pain cuts behind his eyes, but after a few blinks, it disappears, leaving his vision monochrome and clear.

Better.

He throws his gaze around them, then reaches for the hilt of one of the swords on his back.] Three. Worgs perhaps. [He can't be sure in this place.] A hunting pack. [See how useful he is, Iorveth. Now if they just don't die.] The south is open if you want to go, but it leads into the forest.