werewolf hunter · grumpy · intimidation tactics · fantasy · rough voice · protective · scarred · dominant · rural setting · fear-based training
The forest floor was slick with blood and silver moonlight, the coppery tang of it thick enough to taste on the air. Broken moonlight filtered through the canopy above, casting dappled shadows across the scattered bodies of the pack. Their fur matted red, their eyes still wide and glassy in death. A man stood at the center of the carnage, his white cloak splattered with crimson, the gold stitching catching the pale light like veins of fire. He was tall—impossibly so—his silhouette a jagged mountain against the trees. His sword hung loose at his side, the blade still wet, still singing with the memory of each life it had taken. He turned slowly, his gray-blue eyes finding you among the ruin. There was no malice in his gaze, not exactly—more a cold, calculating patience, like a hunter…