Oliver saw the wolves for the first time when he six years old, living on a old farm somewhere around the Swedish border. His parents were simple, and dedicated folk. But they were dedicated to their land, and following an archaic religion he never fully came to understand.

Their dedication meant he was left alone a lot with his fathers dog for protection and companionship. A big, bushy German Shepherd that might have been named Tor.

Wilderness crept in around the farm at all angles, barely held fast by a wall of ancient trees, often shrouded in low hanging mist and choked with dancing shadows. And at night he heard wolves calling out in their mournful way, almost like they were beckoning him to join them.

Stories of children being dragged away from their homes by wolves and never seen again made his stomach churn with fear, though. He didn't think he'd ever be brave enough to go into the wilderness.

But one day, his parents left him alone like they normally do.

And never came back.

There was plenty of food, plenty to drink. And he knew how to work most of the appliances without making too much of a mess, so he waited for them. Cleaning up after himself at the end of each day, then locking the doors, before finally shutting off the lights and heading to bed.

A week passed, and they had not returned. So he began to plan his escape.

There was a pathway he knew about, old and unkempt, winding all the way through the mountainous forest range to the neighbours property. It was at least a hundred years old, with no one taking care of it. He had walked along it plenty of times with his father, although they never went too deep into the woods. He didn't think he would get lost, but he imagined the wolves dragging him away to never be seen again, over and over and over again.

On his final night alone, the lights went off. And the house was cold- and he knew he had to leave. So he bundled up in a coat, with gloves and three pairs of socks, pulled his fathers gun from his sock drawer, a flashlight from the shed out-back, and then with the brawny German shepherd Tor by his side, made for the path at the back of the property.

It was the middle of the day, but it didn't seem like the light of the sun could penetrate the tops of the trees. Maybe it was fear that made the darkness seem darker, like he was about to step into another world full of darkness.

Tor led the way, as if sensing his unease, and he followed just slightly behind the dog.

They walked, and walked, and walked until the path disappeared, becoming an almost identical labyrinth of roots, and tangled underbrush and thorny bramble.

They walked until the flash-light died, and then they walked until the dog stopped, ears erect on top of his skull, gazed fixed on the shadows, full of hungry eyes. And then he was gone, rushing headlong into the jaws of death. Torn apart in a series of frantic, high pitched yelps and the violent cracks of sharp teeth unlike anything he'd ever heard.

Fear made him numb, so he walked a little more until his legs gave out and he collapsed to the ground, exhausted, cold, but sweating, feeling his stomach do loops in preparation of a panic attack.

The wolves, ghosts to him, surrounded him. But rather than tearing him apart like they tore apart his dog, they waited, all of them looking at him as if trying to figure him out. Then, there was a shifting as they parted like a sea for the wolf that must've been the leader. He met the wolf's eyes, all green with shades of amber around it's pupil, and surprisingly human, and swore he saw pity before the wolf opened it's jaws and ripped into him, joining his blood with the forest floor.

Oliver died for the first time when he was six years old, in the jaws of a wolf with human eyes, the snow red with his blood.

At least, it felt like he was dying- ravaged by an unstoppable fever that burned him from the inside out, his body torn apart, then put back together as he became beast, then man, then beast again.

If it wasn't for the hooded man man that found him, and brought him back to his place; a run-down shack deeper in the woods than he's ever been, he doesn't know where he'd be. Or who.

The man had many secrets, but one that he never bothered to hide was that he was...more. And his name- an old name, Grimnir, and sometimes Glad-O-War.

He taught Oliver many things once he was able to take a breath without screaming, and a step without changing forms. How to fish and hunt, and how to whisper with the winds and persuade the tide.

There were men and woman that came into the woods, calling out for him. Their lights cutting through the leafless branches of the old trees like blades of light as they searched. But he watched them through the eyes of a wolf, never brave enough to approach. Doubtful they would help him even if he did. Eventually they stopped looking for him.

That's when he knew he was dead. Officially. When the search parties stopped searching.

Years passed, and Oliver became a young man- strong, fast, and aware. But rage coursed through him, hot like fire in his veins, barely a layer of skin away from exploding through his pores and burning everything around him to ashes.

The rage made him unstable- dangerous. Every cold wind made his muscles spasm, the change threatening to overtake him. Every-time a thorn scraped his arms, his blood got hot and his heart hammered in his chest, threatening to explode from his rib-cage in the form of a wolf and tear out his throat.

Grimnir forbade him to leave the safety of the trees, which only made Oliver want to see the rest of the world all the more. He figured the dangers he was warned of were exaggerated, and that there'd always be woods to disappear into when there was no other choice.. so, one night, when the snow fell heavy and the wind blew hard, Grimnir grunted that he was going to hunt.  And Oliver packed a small bag, following him out into the snow- but following a different path.  He'd taken enough food to survive a week in-case he got lost, and more than enough money to afford a cheap plane ticket.  

It wouldn't be comfy, he thought but it would be warm- and it'd take him far, far away.  Fast.

But he was followed by wolves, hunted like prey everywhere he went.  Attacked on one occasion, on a dark, stormy night.  They'd pulled at his arms and legs until his flesh was shredded into ribbons from their teeth, they pulled him from his clothes and dragged him into the woods, then stood back and watched as the wolf tore it's way out of him.

Then he woke in a ditch, naked, shivering, his skin sticky with blood and grime and dirt.  It was a wonder he made it back to his hotel room without anyone calling the cops on him.  And once he did, he packed his things into a small bag and left without paying for the room, boarding a bus to the next city.

He knew he'd never be left alone to live his life with the wolves following him, so he decided he'd run until he couldn't do it anymore.

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  • Hey so do you want to discuss possible plot ideas?

  • (If the wolf needs a place to crash or a helping hand. The kitty will help. Just saying.)

  • (Cats will be cats, is all I can say on my behalf for Demetri. Laid back and usually lounging somewhere. Currently in Manhattan. Anywhere Oliver likes to hang out, other than being in the big city? Anywhere specific?)

  • (First of all, friend or foe? lol There anywhere you'd specifically like to cross. Major city or some local back woods?)

  • As Oliver waited a man would step in front of his booth wearing a dress shirt and a red tie holding a note pad with a pen in hand. "Hello there, my name is Mephisto and I shall be your Waiter today." He spoke out while grinning at the boy his eyes staring at his. "What will it be, a good drink, something to eat or perhaps a place to stay and get your bearings?" He asked before taking a look at the tv for a moment before humming.

    "It seems to be getting rather bad out, a pity it would seem." He then went back to Oliver while smirking, he would wait for his answer while acting as the waiter. In truth, Mephisto isn't much of a waiter type, he is just playing the role of waiter since one of his workers called out due to the weather. As a matter of fact, he isn't the waiter of this bar, he is the owner. 

  • Once, there was a foolish boy who cried 'wolf'~

  • Kaine allowed his hand to retreat back to him, and his elbow to perch atop his thigh once more as he watches the other. There is a fair amount of curiosity in Kaine’s eyes, partially because of the mentioned… another wolf so close to the city. It is a strange thing indeed, but Kaine is not so harsh on those that intrude on whatever he is doing. The peace of the forest is fair game to all.

    Except hunters. Those guys can fuck themselves.

    “Alright, fair ‘nough.” He said, as he watched the wolf move to his right in avoidance of the fire. Kaine’s eyes turned to the small fire he had established, standing up, and then walking to it. His boot knocks it over lightly, and with a few stomps and scuffs, the fire is reduced to glowing embers.  His gaze dropped back on the wolf, with a little bit of a thought, he randomly asks. “Up for a run?”

  • The need to take over, to show you were boss, that you were the fucking alpha wasn't unfamiliar to Rosa. She had seen it in her dad, and in her brother, even more so in herself. So when he clenched his fist, in an attempt not to flash his teeth, she took that into account as they walked up into the street.

    "Hey, back there, you looked like you might have... wanted to show your inner wolf. Which, I have no problem with! My dad's like that- and I am too. And one of the things he taught that we could do in human form, to people we know and know what we are, and who are O.K with it. Or other wolves, in politic talk..." Because it was a little odd. "-Are neck bites. But nothing to bruise or hurt the other person. And never to someone who isn't part of your pack. That's just stupid. It's almost a trust thing. So, obviously, I'm not going to let you do that right now."

    As far as scent go, she smelled like burned apple wood, the fragrance of the fruit tree was even a little sweet, but still carried the smell of smoke. The soaps she used had a common theme on the flip side- brown sugar. And of course, she carried the faint scents of others, some wolves. 

    She looked out onto the street and pulled out her phone. "Got it. We can get warmth and food at the cafe while we wait for an uber to arrive, and then stop by the apartment I'm house sitting and talk about what is needed, and who exactly we are. There should be more food and warmth there, and we'll be alone. Sound good?" Her blue eyes flicker off the screen to gauge his reaction to the plan. 

  • Also

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    *Hop Hop Hop*

  • Rosa couldn't hold her posture under the stare, and on a subconscious level she had to kinda go back and submit a little. That didn't mean she would listen to him though. She was Rosa Fucking Hale. And he? He didn't seem like he wanted to hurt her.

    "I can't stand to be in certain places anymore." Being around her father made her feel worthless. One way or another, things were her fault. He didn't care enough about his family to do something as simple as living. He told her this, right to her face. It hurt to see him walk around with the guy he promised his dead husband not to fall in love with, and to hold him as if he was the most important thing in the world.

    She was his fucking child. Wasn't that enough? And if it wasn't, why wasn't it?

    And her mother was falling apart and Rosa couldn't help her. It made her feel sick thinking about it. She closed her eyes briefly and breathed before looking at the wolf boy.

    "I don't like it here, for example." She moved to grab his sleeve, but not roughly drag him along with her. "Here, I know a much more simple place. And you can tell me why your running away there."

    She weaved her way through the crowd, holding onto him so they wouldn't get lost. Up the flight of stairs, before sunlight and the noises of the city fell upon them. The noise was like a buzz in a concrete forest, with chattering and cars. "Cafe or no?"
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"It's on days like today that Oliver wonders to himself; "Why the fuck did I come to this hellhole?" As a man easily three times his age  and size  mashes his knuckles into the side of his face, hard enough that stars explode around his vision, and h…"
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"He nods, like there was no possibility he was ever going to be wrong.  Glancing towards the nearest window and grasping the coffee tight in his large hand, only letting it go once it burns his palm.  He then begins to unbutton his denim jacket, from…"
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"A muscle in Oliver's jaw flicks when he's instantly labeled a 'damn pup', something of a mixture of amusement and irritation.  He says nothing, and completely ignores the glances coming their way.  People only believe what they want to believe.  And…"
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"It's not like he hasn't had to sleep outside before, but it was a sobering thought.  He'd probably end up changing sometime after midnight, when the stars he can't see tonight- because of all the buildings and smog- are at their brightest, and the d…"
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