Post by Clayton on Jun 12, 2010 16:10:13 GMT
NAME: Clayton Roth.
NICKNAMES: More often than not, he goes by the abbreviation of Clay, something he has done for many years; just about anyone can use the name, so long as he knows them somehow. Naturally because of his occupation, some people simply call him by his surname, or his rank, respectively; either is acceptable in Clay’s mind.
RACE: Werewolf; bitten.
OCCUPATION: Rogue; Hostage Negotiator for the Los Angeles Police Department, where he holds the rank of Sergeant. Technically the title is Crisis Negotiator, but Clay has become known for his work with hostage negotiation specifically.
GENDER: Male.
SKIN COLOUR: Caucasian.
NATIONALITY: German.
AGE: 419, though physically he looks to be in his early thirties.
CLOTHING: Outside of work, Clay is casual and comfort is key. He’ll answer the door in a plain, baggy t-shirt and sweatpants and not give a damn what the other person thinks, or you could catch him on a neat day, and he’ll present himself in jeans and a button-down shirt. Clay isn’t spontaneous exactly when it comes to his wardrobe, but if he can’t be bothered to make the effort, then it shows. He has long since given up worrying about the opinions of others, and no longer wastes time and effort presenting himself as others want him to present himself. Naturally, when it comes to his work, he takes it seriously, and he will make the effort. Because of his specialty, professionalism and a wardrobe to reflect that is to be expect: he wears suits, often without the jacket, but the pants are always dark and tidy; the shoes, somewhat like boots, are polished and presentable; he is usually found in a white shirt, often with a white t-shirt or wife beater beneath, usually with the top button unfastened; his ties are usually plain, dark colours, at least so they match his suit and don’t clash, and the tightness and tidiness depends on the day he’s had. Naturally, his job is risky and any time he’s called out to work, he’s putting his life on the line, so he can often be found, out and about, at a scene, wearing a bullet-proof vest over his shirt, bearing the L.A.P.D. lettering, and that usually goes right along with wearing an earpiece, as his position dictates.
HEIGHT: 6’3.
WEIGHT: 193lbs.
TATTOOS: None.
PIERCINGS: None.
JEWELLERY: Clayton wears a chain around his neck, platinum, with a pendant shaped like a dog tag; it has been imprinted with what looks like the Iron Cross. It is Clay’s way of honouring his heritage without throwing it in other people’s faces. Clay also wears a simple, black watch, at least while he’s working; when he clocks off, he usually removes the watch and leaves it in his locker.
BODY MODIFICATIONS: Given his age and history, it’s no wonder that Clay has a little more than his fair share when it comes to scars. There are several from fights dotted over his torso, and no doubt a few on his shoulders, perhaps even his legs, but the most defined and vivid scars are over his left hip, from when he was turned. Though he was several other wounds from his turning on his chest from where he was pinned, the initial strike was landed over his left hip, and that would obvious if they were seen and compared to his other ‘war wounds’. The scars are messy, undefined, but on close inspection, it can be seen that the wounds were landed with claws and not teeth, and rather large claws, at that.
WOLF FORM.
BUILD: Clay is not a small wolf, by anyone’s standards, really, and the second he has finished transforming, it’s obvious that he’s a powerful, tank of a creature with plenty of upper body strength as well as speed that he can utilise at a moment’s notice. With additional joints in his legs to allow for such movement, he can be biped or quadruped, and manoeuvre agilely and swiftly either way. He is solidly built, with obvious muscle; he has broad shoulders and a deep chest, and he doesn’t actually taper a lot down towards his waist, with strong legs and large rear paws. His forepaws somewhat resemble hands. His claws are large and razor sharp, almost indistinguishable from the rest of his body thanks to their black colour. His head is very obviously lupine, with tall ears and a long but rather slender muzzle, jaws housing powerful, deadly teeth and sizeable, shredding canines. His neck is thick, but surrounded almost entirely by a mane that could easily be described as wild; it spikes, taking on a sharp appearance, and extends not only down to the top of his shoulders blades but around his jaw on either side and between his ears. The mane’s purpose is obvious; to protect his vulnerable points in combat, and the mane has actually served him very well over the years, protecting his spine and throat on more occasions than he can recall. To finish it all off, Clay has a thick, full, sweeping tail that presumably aids in his balance and agility.
HEIGHT: Biped; 9’1. Quadruped; 4’7.
WEIGHT: 369lbs.
HAIR: Black in colour, with no deviations, not even shades of dark grey, Clay’s coat is full, protective, and covers the entirely of his body in a thick pelt. It is thickest through his tail and around his neck in the form of the mane, which stands tall and spiked, across the back of his neck, from behind his ears to just above his back.
EYES: Yellow.
DEFINING MARKS: His lupine head, black claws, tall ears, distinctively large mane and his tail.
PACK.
PACK: N/A.
POSITION: N/A.
TERRITORY: N/A.
HAIR.
LENGTH: While his hair in human form is considerably shorter and more manageable than it is in his wolf form, Clay’s hair could still be considered long, several inches at its longest and centimetres at its shortest. It is longest across the top, obviously, where it layers over itself, and extends into bangs that could easily hang in his eyes if dropped down or soaked through with water. It is shortest around his ears, understandably, and at the back of his neck, so it doesn’t irritate him.
STYLE: Clay’s hair is stylishly ‘messy’, with the layers on top sweeping over themselves as if he has run his hands through his hair and it has stayed that way. His bangs are styled so that they stay off his temples and brow, so as not to bother him, and it is neat down the back, just tickling his ears at the sides. Compared to other men’s, it could be considered neat, but he’s had a few comments about it being unsuitable or scruffy. Clay ignores such comments.
COLOUR: Brown, of varying shades.
FACIAL HAIR.
LENGTH: At most, Clay’s facial hair is a few millimetres long, above his top lip and over his jaw and chin, in the form of a day or two’s growth.
STYLE: Stubble, for definition more than anything else, and it is highly likely that it is accidental as opposed to anything intentional and ‘fashionable’ on his part.
EYES.
COLOUR: Blue.
ODDITIES: Being a werewolf, Clay’s eyes can shift between his human and wolf colours; because of his age, this shift can be willing, at a time of his choosing, whenever he wishes, but age does not equal immunity when it comes to his emotions and the power of them over his reactions. Powerful emotional response such as shock, fear, anger or pain can provoke a flash or flood of his eyes from one colour to another, even if only momentarily.
PERSONALITY: After a lifetime of being viewed as an outcast of one sort or another, Clayton is really just looking to belong, and feels as if he is continually failing to do that, for one reason or another. It’s a constant struggle for him to feel like he belongs anywhere, regardless of whether it’s in a small group, or a large group. If he doesn’t feel too distant to those involved somehow, then he constantly feels as though he sticks out too much, and that only leads to unwanted extra attention. It’s not that Clay shies away from any kind of attention above the norm, especially given what he does for a living and just how often he has to, as an officer, step into the spotlight, but mostly it’s just a lifetime of fears and paranoia, all stemming from one experience or another, coming into play and making him uncomfortable. There is always a lot going on in Clay’s mind at any one time, even when it looks as though he has nothing occupying his time there are always a dozen different trains of thought or memory springing to life and running their course. But Clay is used to being an outsider, to being viewed as different, not quite right. He has lived with it for a long time, and honestly it used to bother him much more than it does nowadays. Nowadays he has at least one place where he belongs, and that is enough.
His roommate, friend and fellow werewolf Mareike Kohler never makes him feel like an outsider or a nuisance, and considering just how long they have lived and travelled together, that’s no wonder, but to Clay it’s akin to a godsend. Mareike doesn’t just make him feel welcome, but she makes him feel safe, comfortable. He can be himself around Mareike without having to worry about being judged or criticised. They met when they were both still human, and have been through hell together more than once, more times than any pair should have to endure pain and misery in fact, and it has left them with an indisputable, powerful bond. Clay sired Mare -- as he calls her, his affectionate, familiar name for her -- and as a result, has actually come to feel not just protective of and responsible for her, but possessive in a way; she is his to care for, his to shield, and god help anyone who tries to encroach upon that. It’s the wolf in Clay who takes it to such levels, seeing the she-wolf as a part of itself, but the man can’t deny what he feels and even though he never tells her the true extent of it, he can’t shut it down, can’t shut it off, no matter how much he tries. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for Mare, no length he wouldn’t go to, and he suspects she knows that. He does his best to hide it from the outside world so the weakness isn’t made obvious and therefore easy to manipulate, whether it be by colleagues or potential enemies, especially considering just how much he cares for Mareike. It goes beyond the desire to protect and defend her, beyond feeling as though she is part of him. It’s no wonder after all the years they have been together, but Clay has powerful feelings for Mareike, the kind that see him watching her a little longer than he should, the kind that make him uncomfortable and borderline aggressive when another male hovers around her in or out of work. Clay does his best to hide it from her, even after everything they’ve been through, and even with all the confusing near-miss moments they’ve had in the past that have left them a little too close together, a little too silent and almost expectant, he doesn’t have the heart to tell her, in case it scares her away or changes something between them. More than anything, Clay couldn’t bear to lose Mareike. It would destroy him.
Because of the choices he has made over the course of his career, and more specifically one within the last year, Clay has something of a reputation with some of the other cops he has encountered down the line. Many of them don’t approve of the sort of disregard for regulation and procedure that saw him risking his life so blatantly, but for others it’s something else entirely. Whether it’s his rather unique approach to his cases -- he can look at a hostage situation as others cannot, able to get inside the head of either the victim or the kidnapper or gunman or whoever they’re dealing with at any one time -- or his involvement with someone outside of the Force proper, Clay isn’t even sure, and honestly, he doesn’t care as much as he should. After the last nine months he’s more than accustomed to the sight of men not-so-discreetly rolling their eyes or muttering his name with displeasure when he arrives on a scene to play his part as the negotiator. He has a job to do, and on any given day, that is exactly what he intends to do, the opinions of others be damned. At the end of the day it is Mareike’s opinion he cares about most, and those of others barely even leave a mark anymore. He’s lived a long time with disapproval or disdain from others; he’s used to it.
While Clay is a dominant wolf, understandably being the older and stronger of the pair, he isn’t so much an Alpha male as he is a Beta. He and Mareike are by no means a pack, and they have no desire to join or make one, thanks to the scars that have been left by their experiences, and he is still a dominant, but he isn’t as aggressive or assertive as he could be. He doesn’t see himself as the leader or the decision-maker out of himself and Mareike by any stretch, and even though he is older and stronger, her sire, he doesn’t think that makes him better in any way. In fact, he has believed for a long time that Mareike is much better than he is, and he will defer to her judgement and opinion frequently, trusting her absolutely in every respect.
There is an air of paranoia about Clay, and though he no longer checks out of windows and doors or over his shoulder as obsessively as he once did, he is still an especially wary individual. Given what he has been through in his life, it’s no wonder that he’s cautious, on guard for something even if he doesn’t know what, exactly. The only exception is when Mareike is involved; Clay will throw all caution to the wind and put himself directly in the crosshairs of whatever danger looms when it comes to the she-wolf and her safety. His devotion to her is absolute, unwavering, and could one day get him killed. It almost has, more than once, but Clay shows no signs of changing any time soon.
WEAKNESSES: Clay, like all other werewolves, is dangerously ‘allergic’ to silver; not only can it nauseate him in proximity and burn him upon contact, but if it were to infect his bloodstream and not be treated quickly, it could potentially spread to his internal organs, at which point he would be poisoned by the metal, leading to a slow, agonising death as it burns him away from within. The closer to the lungs, heart and brain the infection is, the quicker he would be overcome.
Mareike is obviously a very big weakness for him, and unfortunately, seeing them together, it doesn’t take a genius or even an expert in body language to see just how insanely protective he is of her, and from there, just how much he would do for her, and to spare her any kind of pain, emotional or physical. Clay would literally sacrifice himself for Mareike, without even the slightest hesitation, and his readiness to do so has gotten him hurt more times than he can count, in the past. Hw would do anything she asked of him, and respectively, anything that was asked of him by someone else, were she to be used as leverage against him. There is nothing he wouldn’t do to save her, even if it meant losing his own life. Her safety has always meant more to Clay than his own, and that can be shamefully obvious at times. Clay is in no way subtle about his desire, his need, to shield her.
On a psychological scale, Clay is actually nowhere near as ‘together’ as he seems on a day to day basis. Just because he is good at hiding the flaws, it does not mean they aren’t there, beneath the surface, always eating away at him. His past has left him riddled with weaknesses and phobias and fears that he cannot shake, no matter what he tries, or how often. Anything that reminds him of his captivity, in any way, is enough of a trigger in and of itself, but there are several specific things that will take him back to what he will always consider the darkest portion of his past. Clay actually has quite a severe degree of claustrophobia, and though he can overcome it when he is on the job -- and surprisingly well, at that -- he is terrified of confined spaces, being cramped and locked away in any way. He has a -- relatively minor, all things considered -- degree of nyctophobia, otherwise known as a fear, or phobia, of the dark, or being trapped in darkness. He does not like to shake hands with people unless he absolutely has to, and in fact, any unnecessary contact from others with his hands just unnerves him and makes him incredibly uncomfortable, to the point where he will consciously increase the distance between himself and the other person, just to keep them from touching him. Clay never willingly stands with his back to any windows or doorways (or in fact, any people he does not know or trust), and always needs to have a clear view of those doors or the exit; not being able to see the exit provokes a kind of panic in him, making him feel trapped, one of the biggest triggers for any kind of ‘attack’ that he might suffer in regards to his phobias and emotional scars. In fact, Clay cannot stand to have people standing behind him for no good reason, and becomes increasingly uncomfortable if someone is at his back for more than a few moments without justification; it’s worse when people touch his back without warning or good reason, something that Clay cannot stand except from one person, and when it happens, whether it be a casual clap on the back or a rested hand, he will pull away from it and cannot stop himself from doing so. Finally, Clay, quite understandably, suffers from frequent nightmares of the time when he was imprisoned and subjected to the sessions at the hands of the Inquisition. He relives painful, terrifying events from that time in his past that either keep him trapped in a dream that he cannot wake himself from or jolt him violently from sleep in such a state of panic that he could, potentially, lash out at anyone close enough to him to be perceived, in that moment, as a threat.
Physically, Clay is predominantly left-handed, something that many consider to be a weakness, and while it is true that he does rely on his left as his dominant side, and therefore his strongest when it comes to wielding a weapon or writing or performing any number of daily tasks, he can, at a push, use his right. His left hip is an undeniable weakness to him at times, one that leaves him feeling physically weakened and aching, to the point of frustration; the wounds that were landed during the attack that infected him with lycanthropy presumably did deep, lasting damage that has never quite healed, and though Clay seems perfectly fine most of the time and doesn’t even so much as limp, the joint will spontaneously ache, sometimes even going so far as to feel as if it is locking, causing him pain and stiffness that he simply has to ride out, since no medication can actually touch it thanks to his lycanthropy. Still, he tries not to complain; given the nature of the injury, and just how bad the injuries were at the time, he is well aware that he could have lost his entire leg. Clay knows he should count himself lucky.
ABILITIES: Thankfully, Clay has the traditional werewolf strengths to balance out the weaknesses, included by not limited to heightened strength, speed, agility, balance, endurance, pain tolerance, healing factor, enhanced senses, the ability to leap to, from and across significant heights and distances without penalty, and of course, his wolf form which is at his disposal at all times. Because of his age, Clay is no longer vulnerable to the pull of the full moon and its monthly cycle, meaning he has complete control over when and where he transforms.
Clay has developed a number of skills because of his occupation, things that come into play in his life more than he realises now that he knows them. He is trilingual, fully fluent not only in his native German and English, but also in Spanish, a language that many police officers have endeavoured to learn, and one that he utilises in his job time and time again. Obviously he is a fully qualified crisis negotiator with all the licenses and qualifications that go along with such a title; all of this is completely up to date, and Clay makes sure to keep it that way, and since he has been in the field for a long time, he is considered one of the foremost experts in the city, meaning he very rarely has a day without a job to work, and he is often called out in the middle of the night because of his record and when no one else is available on hand. He has all the skills that negotiators have to have, many of which are actually facets of his personality, faked or otherwise; he is patient, level-headed in a crisis and can relate to a wide variety of people, including and especially the suspects. Before becoming a negotiator, he worked as not only a uniformed officer, but also as a detective in Anti-Crime, which was a sort of stepping stone before he moved onto his current field. As a result of all this, he is fully trained not only in hand to hand combat and other kinds of self defence, but also in the use of a wide variety of firearms, including the standard, regulation sidearms like Glocks and Berrettas but rifles and shotguns; he can even use a sniper rifle, if push comes to shove, and he has extremely good aim.
Clay was a skilled fighter before he entered the police force, and can be downright lethal, even when unarmed. His strength with weapons is with guns, thanks to his work, but he can use a dagger or a knife, and he is actually extremely good with an axe, thanks to experience. There is no one brand of combat that Clay relies on, preferring to utilise what works for him, and as a result, like many werewolves, he has developed his own particular fighting style that cannot be categorised or labelled, really. Violence aside, Clay can cook a variety of meals, drive a car at reckless speeds whether it be manual or automatic, and he plays guitar, a habit he picked up within the last century and has stuck with as a kind of hobby, and a way to unwind.
WEAPONS: Clay owns two handguns, one that goes along with his badge and is counted as his regulation sidearm, a Glock 20. His other is licensed and registered as well, and is a Walther P22. Oddly, over the years, Clay has developed a fondness for axes, and has a small collection that he keeps under strict lock and key; he owns not only a German battle axe, but also a selection of throwing axes and twin axes, which he can wield simultaneously.
PRIZED POSSESSIONS: Clay doesn’t technically consider it prized since it’s just a car and could be replaced, but he owns a black 2006 Jeep Grand Cherokee SRT8.
HOME(S): An apartment on Neal Lewis’ side of the city that he shares with Mare.
HISTORY: With a German father and an English mother, Clayton never exactly fit in, even in his hometown of Dresden in West Germany. His mother, Bethany, had met his father, Alwin, when he travelled overseas with a group of friends; Bethany returned home with Alwin as his wife, moving into a town that didn’t know her, people who immediately viewed her suspiciously, as an outsider, someone not to be trusted. She didn’t even speak their language, but Alwin did his best to teach his wife the language as quickly as he could, ensuring she knew the basics so she could at least function in her new home, regardless of the fact that very few people would even so much as look at her, let alone engage her in conversation. Alwin in turn was viewed warily, as if he had brought something dangerous into their community, threatening to poison them at the core. Alwin didn’t let it dissuade him from loving his wife, but Bethany was frightened, unnerved by the way she was viewed, and it kept her from admitting, even to her husband, that she was pregnant; when she started to show, there was no way to hide it, of course. The townspeople started to whisper, shaking their heads and clucking their tongues, displeased by this turn of events, and no matter how hard he tried, Alwin’s attempts to sway them failed at every turn.
Named by his mother, Clayton Roth was a strong baby, surprising for the time, and his father was proud of him from the get-go; he had high hopes for his son, even when faced with the dissatisfaction from the other townspeople. That wouldn’t hold the Roth family back; Alwin was sure of it. Thanks to his father’s successful lessons with his mother, Clayton grew up bilingual, learning German and English; he also learned how to read and write, and his mother taught him other things that some deemed unimportant while his father helped him learn how to be a man, how to work with his hands and fend for himself. Teaching a young boy how to fight might have seemed strange, but Alwin saw it as essential; he knew the world could be a cruel, harsh place, and didn’t want his son going out into it unprepared. He knew that the day would come when Clayton left them, and though he was loathe to face it, face losing his only son, he wanted his boy to know how to survive.
Despite being regarded, even after so many years, as unusual and therefore unwelcome, the Roth family thrived. Though Bethany never again fell pregnant, leaving Clayton as the only child and the sole carrier of the family name after his father, they were happy and they loved one another, and that was all that mattered. But the time did come when Clayton’s thirst for knowledge and exploration, tempered by the lessons of his parents in his youth, reached unquenchable levels, and the only thing that would sate them was leaving. His mother was sad, his father reluctant to accept that the time had finally come, but his son was eighteen, a man now, able to make his own decisions and keep himself out of danger; they couldn’t keep doing it for him. It hurt to let him go, but Alwin and Bethany gave Clayton their blessings, and saw him off, hoping he would return and that they would see their only son again.
Clayton travelled west, through Germany, stopping here and there, learning new things about new ways of life, fascinated by the differences in the towns alone, how they worked and how the life flowed from one day to the next. It wasn’t until he reached Sasbachwalden, a town within The Black Forest, that he decided to try and put down roots, his choice aided by his meeting of a young woman named Mareike Kohler, a pretty blonde with a polite nature who looked on an outsider like him acceptingly, something that was new and therefore novel, making him want to stay and get to know her more. The two struck up a friendship, Clayton finding accommodation in one of the small homely inns and work with the winery doing manual labour, and he would meet with Mareike often, walking or sitting with her, the pair talking and learning about one another. Clayton quickly decided that he liked her laugh, but that he didn’t hear it enough, and that troubled him, making him wonder what was holding her back. Any and all attempts to get to the bottom of the mystery, however, were quickly tossed aside; Mareike didn’t want to talk about it, and he couldn’t force her. More than that, he wouldn’t. Already he respected her too much to delve into her life without her invitation, so even though he worried, he didn’t pry, apologising for making her uncomfortable and letting it go. Their routine continued for several weeks, their meetings frequent and comfortable, as if they had known each other for years, and Clayton quickly came to view Mareike as a dear friend, perhaps the first and only one he had ever had.
On his way home from meeting Mareike one evening, the light quickly fading and the young man tired from the day, Clayton didn’t realise he was being followed until it was too late to do anything about it; he was attacked from behind, struck down by a blow that carried enough force to knock him out instantly. He wasn’t out for long, and when he regained consciousness, he realised he was no longer in the town, but beyond its borders, surrounded by trees that he recognised instantly if only for the myths and legends based around them. The Black Forest was said to be home to all manner of creatures, wolves and other beasts, and even with his head still clearing from the blow, he worried about his safety. That fear only intensified when he realised he wasn’t alone, feeling the tightening of rope around his wrists as someone bound his hands together behind him, around one of the dark, looming trees. Asking what the man wanted earned him a hard strike across the face, his captor telling him not to ask questions, but answer them. After recovering from the blow, Clayton saw the man for the first time, shocked when he realised he recognised him. He had seen the man, Stefan, in the town, often speaking with Mareike’s father. His suspicions were confirmed when Stefan began to ask Clayton how he had managed to get close to Mareike when no one else had ever managed such a thing before.
Clayton didn’t understand, didn’t know how to answer, and the delays only earned him more strikes, sometimes across the face, others to the stomach or chest, each one as painful as the last, weakening him against the next. The interrogation continued, Clayton fumbling his way through his responses, pained and bleeding after the strikes; Stefan’s revealing and use of a dagger had helped clear some of the cloud from his captive’s mind, encouraging him to answer, and whenever he failed, Stefan would slash him with the blade, not enough to kill him or cause too much blood loss, but enough to warn him of what would happen if he didn’t talk.
Under the light of the full moon, Clayton told Stefan everything, as much as he could, unable to brace or duck back from any punches or backhands that were hurled at him when he asked why he was being questioned. With his captive drained and the young man’s purpose served, Stefan used the dagger to cut Clayton loose from the tree, catching him by the scruff of his shirt before he could fall or run; instead he forced him to kneel on the forest floor. Clayton knelt, shaking, knowing that he was about to die, hating that he was scared, that he didn’t feel ready to face it, and that he was being killed for something so ridiculous as a friendship. Hearing Stefan behind him, Clayton flinched, waiting for the killing blow, only to be caught completely off guard by an inhuman roar and a rush of movement followed by a horrific wail and gargled scream as something sailed out from the darkness and slammed into Stefan with bone-breaking force. Clayton ducked to the ground and turned to the source of the horrible racket, seeing something that his mind simply refused to register for what it really was, a monstrous, shaggy beast, parted maw dripping with thick blood, eyes too bright to be natural turning, predatorily, knowingly, in his direction.
His mind reacted then, screaming at him to run, and he tried. Breathless and terrified, Clayton turned and scrambled through the leaves and twigs, trying to get his legs under him, but the beast moved too quickly, impacting him and tossing him like a rag doll, landing deep, agonising wounds over his left hip, sending bolts of white-hot pain down his leg, crippling him. It came over him, knocking him onto his back, looming, pinning him effortlessly, pressing one clawed paw down on his chest, forcing the shaky air out of his lungs. It lingered over him, almost as if it were toying with him, its snout inches from his face, breathing hot, coppery breath over him, and again Clayton knew he was about to die, could see no way out of the horrible, mindless situation.
Again, just as he was bracing for the killing blow, waiting to feel those huge fangs tear through his neck, ‘fate’ changed its mind; he felt the pressure on his chest slip and then release, heard a shuddering, guttural gasp. Opening his eyes, he saw the thing above him tremble and begin to change. Contort. A howl of anguish ripped up and out of the creature, changing from animal to man, as the beast shrank back and away, into a human. It fell back, curling in on itself, shaking as the first light of day peeked through the tree canopy. Clayton lay there, stunned, immobilized by his confusion and shock, and then his mind screamed again, telling him to get up, get away, get back to the town. Adrenaline pumping madly through his body, he got to his feet and ran, barrelling through the trees, not even feeling the burning of his lungs as his legs worked overtime to get him back to safety. But when he made it to town again, he was met not with concern, but with alarm; they saw him tumble into view, bloody and thoroughly dishevelled, and backed away from him, muttering amongst themselves.
The crowds grew, the townsfolk drawn by the ripple of confusion and even fear, and Mareike was among them. Before she could move to Clayton, her father stopped her, the two men staring at one another. It made sense then; Mareike’s father, Dirk, hated anyone who got close to his daughter, and had managed to scare all others away, but Clayton had been different, he’d gotten close when no one else had, and that forming bond had been enough to seal his fate. Dirk had arranged for Stefan to kidnap him in the night, take him away, find out how he had won Mareike’s attention and then kill him. It was only dumb luck and some freakish creature from the forest that had kept him from being killed.
Thinking it would turn attention to Dirk and surely single him out as the cause for his sorry state, Clayton announced Stefan’s death. As the gasps and disbelief swept through the gathered crowd, Dirk raised his voice in outrage, spurring another wave, this one of accusation and horror: Clayton had killed Stefan. He was an outsider, and he had come into their home and attacked them, taken one of their own. Unable to fight, Clayton was arrested, easily overwhelmed as adrenaline wore off, the wounds from his ordeal taking their toll at last. Desperate and out of options, Clayton cried out that he hadn’t killed Stefan, saying instead that a creature was responsible, a huge, monstrous beast like a wolf.
Clayton’s desperate attempt to escape blame only bought him time, saving him from being hung for murder at the nearest opportunity; his outrageous claim at seeing a werewolf, and worse yet insisting that it had scratched him, made him guilty of something else entirely. Witchcraft. And though that kept him from being executed right away, it only made things worse, the authorities giving the Inquisitors free reign over his captivity and the treatment he was forced to endure. Clayton was interrogated regularly, beaten and tortured to try and force him to confess to dark practises; he was starved and deprived of sleep for days at a time, leading him to suffer from psychotic episodes that only made him seem all the more ‘guilty’, his interrogators proclaiming that he was being possessed whenever he slipped and lost control. Already wounded from his ordeal in The Black Forest, Clayton struggled to cope; every time they knocked him down, he felt like he would never rise again, and each round of torture brought him closer and closer to the edge, destroying his resolve. Giving the men what they wanted became an increasingly tempting prospect, even though he wasn’t guilty of anything, not murder or witchcraft, but any attempts to plead with his captors only encouraged them to start all over again, taking his protests to mean he had recovered enough for the next round. As well as being subjected to the pain of the rack more than once, and the process known as ‘strappado’ (which often went hand in hand with being whipped across the back), his fingers were brutally crushed using thumbscrews and the Inquisitors viciously tore the nails from his fingers, all to try and get him to confess.
Weeks passed, Clayton somehow holding on through everything he was forced to endure. When he was dragged out of his miserable, cramped cell in the early hours of the morning one day, for the third time in his life, Clayton genuinely thought it was going to end, that it was all over, but instead he was forced into a cage, one too small to stand or sit in, designed to wear down the resistance of the prisoner inside. He was left there, uncomfortable and in pain, the cage suspended outside the town proper and exposed to the elements, with only a small number of guards in the vicinity to ensure he didn’t escape, or have any help of any kind. Clayton quickly lost track of time as he hung there, exhausted, starved, dehydrated and quickly succumbing to the cold air that attacked him from all sides, realising with a muted sense of horror that he could die there in that cage, just wither away to nothing; a pitiful, slow way to die.
Weak and struggling to recover from the treatment at the hands of his interrogators, Clayton failed to notice a new arrival; hanging in that cage seemed to rob him of his awareness enough for someone to get all the way up to the base of his ‘cell’ before he realised he had company, and more than that, the guards weren’t intervening. The biggest shock was the identity of his new companion. Mareike. In her hands she clutched, of all things, a piece of wood, as if she had taken up the first weapon she could find and committed herself to using it. Sure enough, when his vision cleared enough for him to look to the guards’ previous posts, the men were unconscious -- at the very least -- on the ground. Mareike had ambushed them, caught them off guard. Even as he struggled to comprehend what was going on, his mind clouded by the mistreatment after weeks in captivity, Mareike used the keys she had taken from the guards to unlock the cage and, not without difficulty, get Clayton out. It was hard for him to stand, let alone move, his body so drained and every inch of it seeming to be in pain, aching and throbbing with any attempt to walk or shift at all. But Mareike insisted they move, urged him to go, and he knew she was right, that they couldn’t just stand there.
They would never let him get away if they realised he had been released, and they would hunt him down. Worse than that, they would punish Mareike too, and that was nothing compared to what her father would potentially do. Clayton had, by that point, realised what it was that had kept Mareike from making friends and why. Even as he looked at her, just wanting to collapse to the ground and never rise again, he could see that she had been struck, and not gently. Someone had hit her. Jumping to conclusions though it was, Clayton immediately blamed her father, feeling a building anger, unlike anything he had ever felt before, rise up from beneath the physical and mental anguish of his own ordeal. When she told him she couldn’t just leave, he shook his head, lost for words, confused, but then she told him why. Her mother was sick, and Mareike refused to just abandon her. There was no way Clayton could ask her to do something like that to her mother, and in the end, it likely wouldn’t have mattered even if he had tried; Mareike sat him down where she thought he would be safe, pressed a tied pouch into his hands, careful of his injuries, and asked him to wait, telling him she would be back. And then she was gone, running back through The Black Forest to the town, to her mother.
The pouch was filled with herbs, presumably to help with his injuries, but Clayton didn’t know how to use them; he didn’t know what to do with himself, and he didn’t sit there on that low-cut stump for long before something clicked into place in his mind and he found himself, somehow, rising from that makeshift seat and heading through the trees after her. Whatever happened, he knew he couldn’t just leave her; she had a head start and he wouldn’t be able to catch up to her, not with his wounds and in such a sorry state in general, but he couldn’t abandon her, couldn’t just sit and wait for her. He didn’t trust Dirk, not after the pieces had fallen into place. Not after what Dirk had done to them, to him. Perhaps it was anger, the prospect for some kind of revenge, that kept his legs moving, kept him from collapsing, agonised and exhausted, but whatever it was that fuelled his journey, he didn’t question it, simply kept moving as quickly as he could, determined to reach his destination before that unknown force expired and he found he couldn’t move.
When he finally stumbled out of the trees alongside the Kohler household, he realised from the chaos of sounds coming from within the house that he had possibly arrived just in time. Raised voices, anger and fear crashing over one another, and sounds of blunt-force strikes -- a sound Clayton knew all too well by that point in time -- drove him to the back of the house, panicked by what he was hearing and what it might mean. Praying he wasn’t too late, once again relying on a peculiar reserve of strength and resolve, he felt his hand wrapping around the sturdy wooden grip of a familiar tool propped by the back door, letting himself into the house without hesitation, driven by the familiar sound of Mareike’s voice as she cried out in pain.
Mareike’s mother was dead; Clayton knew that as soon as he laid eyes on the woman, and in his shock and disbelief, he gave Dirk the opportunity to turn and see him. Those feelings were mirrored back at him, quickly replaced by a rage the likes of which the younger man had never seen, and when he saw Dirk’s hand reaching for his daughter’s hair, Clayton’s mind shut down. Thought and feeling were gone, replaced by one thing, and one thing alone, one powerful, almost primal conclusion, even as his body responded to the conviction in his mind.
Enough.
Before he could even think about what he was doing, Clayton swung the axe gripped in his hands, ignoring all the aches and pains in his own body, feeling more than hearing the resounding, wet crack as the blade impacted. Dirk’s hand released Mareike’s hair, but Clayton didn’t stop, simply hit the man again. And again. Every scrap of anger and revulsion gave him the strength to hit Mareike’s father several times before he finally dropped the axe to the floor, looking down on the man who had, for his own senseless reasons, ruined so many lives. Clayton stood there, panting and gasping for breath, staring down at what he had done, and realising, with a wave of confusion and surprise that he didn’t feel the slightest trace of regret or remorse. The man had arranged to have him abducted, tried to have him killed, framed him for murder and left him at the hands of authorities who had tortured him for weeks. To be the one to end Dirk’s life felt oddly satisfying, like a weight lifting from his shoulders, but before he could have any further revelations about his actions and what they might mean for him on deeper levels, Mareike caught his attention and reminded him, quite bluntly, that the murder charges were no longer false. Clayton really had killed someone, and they would both be arrested and executed if they didn’t run.
So they ran, leaving the town and their lives behind. Thanks to Dirk’s raging outburst, Mareike struggled to get very far without Clayton’s help, but adrenaline was quickly wearing off for him, leaving his body and bringing him dangerously close to succumbing to his injuries, and the fact that he hadn’t been permitted to sleep in what felt like an eternity. The adrenaline failed him, and Clayton quite simply couldn’t support Mareike anymore; he couldn’t even support himself. Quite without warning, despite trying with everything he had left in him to fight it, Clayton simply collapsed to the ground, consciousness quickly fading. His collapse was enough to snap Mareike out of her stunned state, and she wasted little time in helping him as best she could; it was sheer, dumb luck that Clayton had collapsed in what seemed to be a former camp for woodcutters, providing them with a place for a fire, shelter, and thankfully, a weapon. Another axe. Mareike was able to use the resources available to her to make Clayton as comfortable as possible; it didn’t take him long to succumb to the effects of what he had endured, losing consciousness completely, unaware to a majority of Mareike’s efforts and attentions.
It was while she was tending to his injuries, cleaning and dressing them as best she could given their predicament, that she realised the wounds from his ordeal with Stefan were healing, much, much faster than they should have been; she had seen him after he had staggered out of the trees, seen the bloody mess that was his side. Quickly examining his other wounds and adding it all together, it didn’t take long for her to grow fearful. Clayton was healing too fast. Yes, he had collapsed, but given what he had endured, and how intensely, and for how long, she quickly came to the conclusion that he shouldn’t even had been alive, especially given his condition at the time of his arrest.
When Clayton awoke, groggy and feeling as though he could sleep for days more, he was quickly snapped out of his tired daze by the sight of Mareike brandishing the abandoned axe at him, staring at him warily, looking almost frightened. Of him. Voice shaking, she demanded to know what had happened to him, why he was healing so swiftly -- something Clayton had failed to notice under the circumstances -- and she told him she wanted the truth. What else could he do but give her that truth? She had risked her life, lost her family and her home, to save him. He owed her the truth, if nothing else.
So he told her. He told her about Stefan, and about the huge creature that had attacked out of nowhere, killing his abductor and then turning on him, wounding him before transforming at first light, changing from the wolf thing to a man. As the words left his mouth, they seemed so ridiculous, too outrageous to be true, making him wonder if the others hadn’t been right; maybe he really was out of his mind, evil somehow. But as he watched, afraid of what she would think or do to him, hearing such absurd claims, she didn’t strike. She simply watched him in return, conflict in her eyes, clear on her face. Her hold wavered. Seeing no reason not to, Clayton, tentatively, asked her to put down the axe.
Mareike did, lowering it away from him and then putting it down completely. She sat down, not close to him but not at a fearful distance either, and simply watched the fire she had built, clearly digesting the information he had given her. It felt like hours trickled past, one second dragging horribly into the next, but finally she turned to him, and told him the words he had never expected her to say: she believed him. Mareike made it clear that she didn’t have the first clue what to do with the information he had given her, but she really did believe him. That in and of itself was a relief, and for the time being, Clayton told himself it had to be enough. He would take what he could get.
The days following Mareike’s acceptance were spent tending to wounds and staying at the old encampment where they had found themselves. Neither of them were in the best condition for travelling, and though they both knew that leaving the Black Forest was for the best, there was no sense in rushing themselves after they had both been wounded. Mareike took care of most of the work without complaint, gathering herbs to treat Clayton’s wounds, despite the fact that they were healing of their own accord, as well as food for them to eat. His healing wounds, the speed and efficiency of it, worried Clayton deep down, and though he tried not to show it, it actually frightened him too. He remembered too clearly the attack of the huge wolf-life beast, how it had wounded him and what had gone through his mind during his imprisonment, the something deep down inside that he had felt fighting to keep him from admitting defeat and giving the Inquisition what they had wanted from him. As much as possible, he distracted himself from those thoughts, from losing himself in the possibilities and fears, trying to concentrate on getting better if only so that Mareike wouldn’t have to do a majority of the work.
Restlessness was bound to get the better of him at some point, his energy levels rising with each day that passed during his recovery, and the more his injuries repaired and his strength returned, the more the urge to roam seemed to take hold until he finally couldn’t take it anymore and he told Mareike that he was going to take a walk in order to try and burn off some of that energy. He gave no thought to the cycle of the moon, or that it was the first night of the full moon, the day before it would be at its fullest. It only occurred to him, too late, when in the middle of his walk in the forest, debating whether or not to turn back with the failing light. Out of nowhere a blinding pain struck him, doubling him over and almost buckling him right down to the ground, the agony sweeping through his body with such fierce speed that he couldn’t even cry out; the air had left his lungs as if from a blow and finally he fell to his knees, still trying in vain to not only understand what was happening to him, but fight against it. Inevitably he lost that fight, and falling to his knees was the last thing he remembered that night. Everything that followed was lost to him, his body breaking and reshaping with the rise of the moon, contorting and growing until he had changed completely into a creature not unlike that which had attacked him and killed Stefan several weeks before.
In his new, imposing wolfen form, Clayton roamed the Black Forest, killing small animals and stalking wherever he pleased, investigating and tracking, much like a wild wolf with no real purpose. Hours passed, the wolf doing as it pleased with no real care in the world, until it caught a scent, one that it followed silently, quickly falling back on predatory instincts. Coming across a campsite, the wolf watched from the shadows as a woman tried to coax the fire back into life. With the flames so weak and low, the creature had no trouble creeping closer unseen, and it wasn’t until the fire jumped back into life that it was seen by the woman. The two stared at one another, wolf down at woman and woman up at wolf, and then the human turned and ran, making her biggest mistake. Unable to resist when the prey was turning its back and fleeing, the wolf snarled and gave chase. Being much larger and able to run on four legs with bestial power at its disposal, the wolf had no problem running the woman down, slamming her to the ground, and even though she threw her arms up to protect her head and neck, the creature wouldn’t be defeated.
It didn’t count on the sun rising, however, which put an end to its hunt before it could reach the real climax. It wasn’t quite in time to stop the wolf from clawing the woman’s arm, though, as it pulled back away from her suddenly, stumbling across the ground like a thing wounded, struggling against the inevitable, panting and groaning thick in the base of its throat. With the woman looking on, the wolf twisted in on itself in breathless, voiceless agony, reshaping and receding until finally Clayton was back, gasping for air, wide eyes turning at once on Mareike who was buckled close to him, her arms bloody and her face pale with not just fear, but terror. Clayton quickly put the pieces together but before he could offer an apology or even really accept what had happened, Mareike was up on her feet and running away from him, understandably terrified, not looking back. He called after her, and finally managed to get his limbs to cooperate long enough to rise from the ground and give chase, but it was too late; she had gotten too much of a head start and he couldn’t even begin to track her, his skull pounding and the vile, unmistakeable taste of blood in the back of his mouth and throat. That didn’t stop him from looking for her all through the day though, fearing what might happen to Mareike if she was by herself, and wounded at that. The guilt only continued to grow with each passing hour, Clayton searching on in vain until the sun finally began to inch lower towards the horizon.
In his concern for Mareike, Clayton once again forgot all about the moon, and that it would be truly full that night, so when night came, bringing the transformation with it once again, he was caught off guard just as he had been the previous night. Just as before there was nothing he could do to fight it and soon enough he was no longer human, but wolfen instead, running through the trees with a strange kind of purpose, darting this way and that, as though on some kind of predestined course. Slowing himself to a lope, the wolf that was Clayton came to a stop at last at the edge of a small clearing. There on all fours he watched silently, not even seeming to breathe, as another dark wolf rose from the ground, not unlike a newborn with unsteady legs. It was a female, smaller than he was himself but of the same race, he seemed to recognise that instantly, and with an instinctual kind of caution he moved forward from his place and further into the clearing until he was close enough to stretch out his nose and sniff the female. There was something so very familiar about her, something in her scent that he recognised, keeping him from any kind of dominance or aggression. There was something about her scent that made him feel almost protective, perhaps even a touch possessive. When she didn’t turn around and cuff him or bite him, he moved closer until he could bump his head against her shoulder in a sign of that familiarity and acceptance, a kind of hello as well as a test. Once again, she met his advances without aggression, boosting his confidence and for the rest of the night they were together, hunting and roaming the forest as they pleased, coexisting harmoniously.
When the sun rose and took the wolves away, Clayton was understandably surprised to find Mareike within touching distance. From where he was buckled he could see the wounds on her arms, wounds he had given her, and the first thing to come out of his mouth after another exhausting night with no memory of his own actions was the apology he hadn’t been able to offer her soon enough the previous day. To his relief, Mareike didn’t run from him a second time, though she was silent for a while, as if processing everything that had happened, and as such he was quiet, letting her have as long as she needed in order to do so. That relief only grew when Mareike quietly went on to accept his apology and gave him her own, one she didn’t need to give him as far as he was concerned, but it was accepted by him all the same. It seemed that her own transformation had helped her to understand what had happened.
The rest of the day was spent recovering and resting before the moon rose again and the third night of the cycle saw them transforming yet again and running and hunting through the Black Forest side by side once more. When the full moon was passed and Clayton and Mareike had recovered, they finally made their way out of the Black Forest altogether, hoping to put it behind them in every sense of the word. At first there were no plans as to where they would travel, at least not until Clayton finally broached the idea of them leaving Germany, and in fact Europe, entirely and travelling across the water to England. His mother had hailed from England and as a child Clayton had learned the language, knowledge he still possessed and was willing to share with his companion. With nowhere else to go, Mareike agreed and soon they were setting sail and arriving in England, where they hoped to make new lives for themselves and leave all the darkness and misery behind. It was obvious to Clayton that it frustrated Mareike initially, not being understood and barely able to understand for herself, but as time went on, she got more and more of a grasp of the language. It helped to reassure Clayton that she would be able to move about by herself and get what she needed.
Continued below…