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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  • Iaophae was busy tapping away at her phone, her long acrylic nails clicking on the screen as she spoke to booking clients. But one heavily pierced ear twitched once she sensed an otherworldly presence enter the cafe- however she could not see it. By scent, she immediately knew the presence was male, inhuman and...wounded. A growling starvation wrapped its cold claws around the soothsayers stomach as she caught a succulent, tantalizing whiff of humanoid blood. Broken flesh. The Rusalka had to fight the urge to burst into every single room, crack and crevice to find where this scent was coming from, tear it apart, devour its organs, its flesh, relish in its blood, rip it open and adore the feeling of having the craving for human flesh quenched and satisfied. But she wouldn't allow the claws, the fangs, the inhuman look to appear. She couldn't.

    Soon enough, Iao's gemstone gaze landed on a fellow emerging from the men's bathroom- one who had not entered the cafe before. And he matched the persona she had created in her mind, and even had the same otherworldly scent. A smile cracked at her plush, fat lips. Here, she saw quite the opportunity, and he peaked her curiosity anyway. After ordering her coffee and croissant, her heels clicked on the floor as she made her way over to the booth where the stranger sat, letting the light seeping from the window and illuminate his skin. "'Ello handsome." Iaophae said sweetly, however not in a flirtatious tone. Miss Race was a bit of a hoe but not THAT much of a hoe. She threw one thick voluptuous thigh over the other, clearing her throat and letting her gemstone gaze meet his. "Ye got quite de interestin' smell dere, doll face." Iao murmured quietly, so she would not alert the humans around them. "An' don't be frettin' none, ah'm nah dreat. Jus' 'ere ta talk an'...maybe see iffe ye an' Ah canne 'ave some fun, yee?" She canted her head, letting her thick ebony Cornrows spill over one shoulder. Her burgundy nails tapped against the table, and she mouthed "thank you" to the waitress who served both of their orders, before she turned back to look at Oliver, raising one sculpted eyebrow. "De name be Iaophae Rose Race, lad." She informed him, her alluring accent, a mix of Caribbean and Scottish, rolling off of her pierced tongue. "Ye wanna tell me who hurt ye?" One hand ran over the opening of her leather bag, her fingers gripping an archaic looking book, it's cover and pages war torn, and she revealed the book just a little bit to him. "We canne easily 'ave some fun wid dem. Trust me, lad."
  • Heels clicked on the cement sidewalk, occasionally crunching autumn leaves beneath the soles. Yes, she turned heads, how could she not. Her ebony hair was knotted tightly against her scalp in cornrows which spilled down over her shoulders in thick, gold banded braids. Long lashes framed a gemstone gaze, irises the color of sapphires, deep and intense. Her skin was like gold itself, tanned from years out in the sun, a beautiful mulatto complexion from her Scottish and Caribbean descent. But strangely enough, it was nearing the dead of Fall, and this woman was out here in blue jeans ripped to all hell, tall burgundy heels and a white cropped top, revealing a mural of tattoos coating her golden-tan skin. Covering her right leg, left side, left arm, her chest and the back of her neck was ink, mesmerizing in appearance.

    Yes, she was a head turning, eye catching masterpiece of wide hips, thick thighs, a trim waist and enough attitude to go around the world twice, but to the supernaturals sight, she was something quite dark. Almost sinister, yet so alluring, anyone curious would immediately be drawn towards this snare of an aura.

    Truth was, past the cinnamon-vanilla perfume, she naturally carried the scent of a...a feline. And strangely enough, forests and lakes. A clear summer evenings breeze. But no human could ever pick up on this. Carelessly, she strode into a nearby cafe, dropping one wide hip to relax as she waited in line to order.

    Iaophae Rose Race was her name, known by many things, but one prominent title was the most hunted woman in Scotland. For a time. Until she faked her own death almost two thousand years ago. Rumors still travelled across the wind of her, tickling the ears of Scottish natives. Some even have claimed to have sightings of the presumed dead Iaophae. The so called cannibal Cat Sith. But she had another name too. The Lady of Masks, a soothsayer known worldwide amongst the supernatural, believers in the higher power and diviners. None had seen her face for she always wore masks, but little did they know the Lady was also the one they hunted. Funny. Iaophae found it amusing, but she would fight with tooth, claw and burgundy acrylic nails to protect her little secret. Her many secrets actually.

    But as of now, Miss Race appeared to just be a beautiful woman in a cafe, checking her phone and waiting in line to order. All normal. All a-okay.

    Nothing out of the ordinary.
  • Hey so do you want to discuss possible plot ideas?

  • 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?”

  • There is hardly any bother with the fact that another is watching him. He can feel eyes on him, be it woodland critters or a curious wolf. His amber eyes shone with the flames, dancing with the glow. Kaine’s expression does not change from a cool and collect one that he always manages to keep… unless he is in a mood of sorts. Kaine grumbled softly, snorting a bit of greeting towards the newcomer. His hand dips towards a shorter, less reliable stick, and he began to stir the bits of wood somewhat. This elicits more sparks that follow and flit about briefly, like temporary stars.

    “Nice night, huh…” 

    This one had been hunting, the blood is the same that he had noted before. Can't be a coincidence. Kaine stands up, the stick falling to his feet with a light thud, and he proceeds to travel forward towards the wolf before squatting. He balanced on the balls of his feet, his elbows resting on his thighs, and cocking his head a little to the right. Kaine lets his hand extend towards the wolf, possibly to invite the beast to have a sniff, to know who he through smell. 'Course, he is a little imposing to most, so he'd understand if there was reluctance to even step forward.

  • Same here even though I wouldn't say that Jace is one of my favorites I'd prefer Isabelle probably.

    Sounds good I will read your character info to know Oliver better. But for now do you have any ideas how our characters could meet?

  • *Stumbles around on this page in the utter d a r k .*

    *Stubs a toe on the edge of the comment box.*

    *Hits head on a line of text and curses.*

  • Kaine’s attention drew from the fire to something running not far off from him. The heavy hoof beats, the scurry of something smaller than the heavier sound pursuing. It was an interesting symphony of sorts, but one he knew full well in times when he would hunt like the beast he is. Someone is moving in on one of the many choices of game these woods have to offer.  He sits there, looking over his shoulder contemplatively whilst the fire slowly creeps up the dead stick he had a hold on, forgotten that it is still paused in the fire and licking up the loose bark. Kaine lets a small hiss of pain as the heat finally curls the hairs of his knuckles and nibbles at his fingers ravenously. The stick is tossed in, no further use can be made now that the fire had claimed it.

    His attention returns to the sound, or lack of, going on behind him. He ponders on where it went to where his eyes could no longer follow and his ears left without a trace of tracking. Then, the howl breaks the train of thought as a familiar, haunting cry is unleashed into the night. Kaine’s animalistic side bleeds in as he drinks in the scents around him, sniffing, thinking, and calculating. Blood; definitely blood. Someone’s got a meal.

    Suppose he should send off a congratulatory holler to the victorious hunter. Kaine inhales softly and leans his head back, letting his lips slip into form. He releases howl, a foreign sound coming from looks to be a human man. Somewhat of a rumbling sound in addition to this howl could be heard, as if a roar were in sync with that lupine howl.  Then he ends it with a gentle huff, and out of habit, licks his lips lightly as he anticipates a possible returning call. 

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