Titus' head jerks up at the mention of the Summer Wolf. His eyes narrow, angrily.
"I believed the Summer Wolf to be dead."
He was thinking back to the time that he had gotten bit. Fresh out of supplies, he and he men were making their way to Markarth to stock up on the necessities when a roving group of werewolves had set upon them. The men made a valiant effort, killing all but the largest wolf, but taking heavy casualties in the process. Titus had turned to his men and told them to run, that he, alone would hold the creature off.
They struggled for what seemed like hours, but in reality was only tens of minutes, neither one gaining an apparent advantage, until Titus, knocked to the ground found that his hand rested near an ebony blade of the same design that Amanti held now. With his strength ebbing and the creature on top of him, he thrust the blade into the creatures chest just as it got a savage hold on his chest.
Rolling over, and slowly climbing to his knees, Titus examined the injury carefully. Knowing that Markarth was too far to seek help, and damning himself for not paying attention to the alchemy lessons his mother had tried to give him, he moved slowly to an outcropping of rock. Once there, he slept.
When he awoke, he was not in the same place that he had fallen asleep, instead he was in a roughshod campsite, with nary a thing but blood and limbs spanning the area, he looked at the nearest body and recognized his age old friend, Artemis, dead. Examining him closer he noticed claw marks on the man's chest.