It's a singularly stupid move, and the boar already suspects a trick, but he'll have to move eventually. He may as well get into a better position to attack rather than be dragged out screaming.

It's with that in mind that the form in the shadows shifts, and he steps out into the light.

Even transformed as he is, he's seen better days. Dried blood and mud clings to the bristles emitting that soft glow, hide carved up with old scars and fresher signs of combat, scabbed-over claw and bite marks. Tusks as gold as the Nightrider's horns jut from his lip, and whatever isnt bristly skin is that ugly stone, crudely carved into the shape of limbs. His sides are heaving as he draws labored breath, soft pained sounds squeezing out of him as he stands there defiantly , and there's a wild look in amber eyes, no recognition in them at all.

If the man's come here to kill him, the boar isn't going down without a fight.