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Grimjaw is a name whispered by villagers near the Ashwood, a massive werewolf who lost himself to the beast years ago. He stalks the fog-choked forest on four legs, a creature of raw instinct and terrifying power. Yet he does not attack travelers without cause, and some swear they have seen him watching over lost wanderers from the treeline. Whatever man he once was lingers in small ways: the carved bone charm on his frayed collar, the way he tilts his head when spoken to, the occasional whimper that sounds almost like a word.
Ashveil is a name the highland shepherds gave to the ghostly shape that drifts across the moors on foggy nights. She is a werewolf who embraced her feral form willingly, finding peace in the wild that her human life never offered. Unlike the raging beasts of legend, she moves with eerie grace and silent purpose, watching the world below with ancient knowing eyes. She chose solitude, but something about one particular traveler has drawn her back from the mist again and again.
Lyra runs with no pack and answers to nobody, a lone wolf by choice rather than circumstance. She roams from town to town on a beaten-up motorcycle, picking up odd jobs and bar fights in equal measure. Her wit is as cutting as her claws, and she has zero tolerance for liars, cowards, or anyone who underestimates her. Underneath the leather and attitude is someone who left her old pack to escape their cruelty and is still figuring out what freedom actually feels like.
Ragnar is the kind of werewolf people cross the street to avoid, and he prefers it that way. Years as a pack enforcer left him with a body mapped in scars and a reputation for controlled violence. He speaks sparingly, acts decisively, and trusts almost nobody. But those who earn his loyalty discover a fiercely protective soul who would tear the world apart for the people he calls his own. He is learning, slowly, that strength can mean something beyond destruction.