howlthorne

[howlthorne]

Who: @aviofruin When: 7:30-8:30, Cocktail hour

Lucas didn’t go to hunt down Avi immediately after Remi had pointed him in the right direction, which had to be some sort of testament to his patience. Security breaking into the crowd and picking out a seemingly random guy isn’t a good look for anyone, and this was someone he was supposed to be making a good impression on. 

Was it a bit of a stalker move to wait for the guy to be alone? Probably. His date was human, a girl that seemed nice enough that Lucas had directed one of the other guards at the event to keep an eye on in case she ended up getting left alone and wandering too close to the vampire feeding areas, but he didn’t want to talk about werewolf in front of humans he didn’t know. Even if she was here with one, it was kind of awkward asking a guy if he’d let him into his pack when someone who wasn’t in the pack was listening in. He glanced over on occasion, waiting for an opening until finally, the woman headed off to the bar for something, and Avi was close enough to the edges of the room for it to not be too weird for Lucas to talk to him, weaving through the stragglers around the edges of the crowd to reach him. 

“'Scuse me, are you Avi Hassim?” He kept his voice low, not wanting to be overheard by too many people. “Remi told me you’re the one to talk to about getting in with Harford before the next full moon.”

[howlthorne]

“Pocket square’s a nice touch, at least.” He wasn’t really in a place to speak on clothing, considering he’d be working in a rent-a-tux if he hadn’t found this jacket in his luggage, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to speak at all. Besides, if he did have any actual interest in being here as a guest, he could’ve gotten his hands on enough shit to look good. Making an outfit that fits a theme in a crunch time isn’t that difficult. “It doesn’t do anything to make it not be a boring black suit, but I guess the high-fashion shit is too vampy for you guys.” 

He’d already dealt with a fight at the door with one hunter, he didn’t want to have to deal with another. “When people start deciding there’s too many of you here, I’m the one who’s gonna be stuck throwing you out the door. Might have saved me the trouble.”

Oh, security. Great. Finlay tucked the flask back away and took a sip of his drink. "You and everyone else in this place," he said. "Trust me, trouble is the last thing I want." He took another sip.

Confirmed supernatural. Werewolf or vampire, witches don't tend to respond that strongly to verbena. The feeling of not being able to tell at a glance is just another itch eating at him tonight, when so many others can smell exactly what he is. "If you can't tell, I just love a chance to dress up." Deadpan... humor isn't the right word, because he's never been good at jokes. Sarcasm is more up his alley, and an easy defense mechanism when he's feeling as de-fanged as he is now. "And they let me in, so I guess they haven't reached their quota yet."

[howlthorne]

“Good enough. I checked out the Den like you mentioned, so I’m set for the next full moon if I can’t get in with a pack.” Meeting Remi on his first day in town had been a lucky break. He wasn’t even looking for a fight that evening, but a guy was chasing some girl out of the bar and he wasn’t going to just sit there and let that happen. A few thrown punches, broken bottles, and one dropped cigarette later, and the fire department had been the one breaking up the fight. He’d managed to get a rundown on the different packs in town, who to keep an eye out for, and places to check out from Remi before they’d had to leave.

“I feel like I gotta use ten-dollar words just to talk about how they’re acting. Who can afford to be imperious these days?” He said, settling back against the wall. It took some of the tension from his shoulders, having someone else willing to admit that this feels like one big self-congratulatory party for the kind of people who might break out in a rash if they thought too long about the single-wide he’d grown up in. “Didn’t expect to see any familiar faces, though. Are you here with your pack?”

Remi felt like a fraud in the black tie crowds of the conclave. An imposter who at any moment would be hauled out by the back of their collar. The Felix family had always been a blue collar family. Public Servants, Farmers, lumber jacks, connections rooted in the dirt of the world. This world of glitz and glamour that flaoted above the world was a stranger to the werewolf.  It was only in the last year that they had started to attend the events that required more than the one suit they had for the fundraising parties at the firehouse. Remi had moved away from Nessa with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to return once they had checked in on some of their pack members.  Remi circled the party trying to find anyone they felt they could hold a conversation with without feeling like they would stick their shoe in their mouth.   Each lap they completed around the party had the anxiety creeping further up their chest.  Remi decided to take a break from the search by propping themself against the wall, hoping some sort of magic could turn them into the Homor Simpson meme and allow them to become one with the wall. 

Remi's head jerked up as they were spoken to. They shouldn't have been surprised, a familiar earthly scent had been in lingering in the area. Golden brown eyes inspected the other wolf, head tilting slightly as they tried to place why the face next to them was so familiar to them. Slowly the memories kindled, through the smokey haze of anxiety.  It had been about 16 hours into a twenty four hour shift so the memories had been a bit jumbled. But Remi remembered finding a new werewolf in town and trying to get them pointed in the right direction. 

"I feel like If i have asked the people in here how expensive eggs were, most of them couldn't even really make it into the ball park." Remi would respond, rubbing the back of their neck.  "More just taking a breather before having to go mingle again" perhaps this was an oppertunity to start to do what Mayor Harding had asked . "You getting settled into town alright? "

[howlthorne]

“Politics ain’t my thing. Whatever’s being decided here, I’ll pay attention to it, but I’m not really connected to any group that’s got power here right now.” He said, shrugging. “Parties are more fun when people are there to let loose and have fun, not put on fake smiles and plot out how to stab each other in the back.” 

He shrugged, brushing off her accusation of being trained in anything. He was so caught up in trying to keep up the look of the job that her next question, delivered in such a deadpan tone, caught him off guard, drawing out a laugh. “You gotta buy a guy a drink before asking him something like that, and I think I'd get in trouble if I'm caught drinking on the job.”

If getting him to be less tense and shifty was the goal, she’d succeeded. He tilted his head a bit to be able to hear her better with her standing on his bad side. “Bite, I guess, but only during the full moon. And you?" The tattoos around her ankle answered his question for him, "Hunter? That's too bad, I was starting to like you."

His handshake surprised her a little—not because it happened, but because he offered it so plainly. Irene glanced down, then took it. Her grip was steady, fingers cool from the untouched glass she wasn’t planning on finishing. His hand was warm. Strong in the way most people tried to hide, but didn’t.

“Lucas,” she echoed, like she was filing it away somewhere. “Nice to meet you.”

A small pause.

“Or at least, not a bad one.”

Her gaze returned to the room, to the slow swirl of movement and music and glimmering masks. The crowd was starting to settle into its second phase—the one where people got just tipsy enough to show their real edges. Easier to read. Easier to regret, too.

“Yeah, this place doesn’t feel like your kind of party,” she said after a beat, glancing at him from the side again. “Too many games wrapped in polite smiles.”

She didn’t mean it as a dig. She didn’t look like she belonged here either. There was a long enough lull between them that it might have gone quiet again. Irene didn’t seem bothered by silence, but something about the tension in his shoulders made her speak up, voice low.

“You’re good at keeping your head down,” she said. “But you’re watching everything. That’s not habit. That’s training.”

She didn’t push the point—just let it hang, unspoken. There were only so many roles someone like him could be playing here.

“So, you bite, or suck?”

Her expression didn’t change much. Just a raised brow, like it was idle curiosity and nothing more. Her tone was too even for it to be teasing, too direct for it to be casual. She wasn’t afraid of the answer —just trying to find her footing in the conversation. In him.

“Not that it makes a difference,” she added, lifting one shoulder in a quiet shrug. “Just helps to know which flavor of trouble I’m talking to.”

[howlthorne]

He didn’t bother stopping the raccoon. Lucas was event security, not animal control, and besides, she seemed to know where she was going. The issue was the hunter, who was seeped in so much conflicting magic that standing too close was like stepping into a yankee candle store with no ventilation, and taking shots at his outfit. 

“I don’t need to dress like a rich asshole, I’m working.” He knew hunters were dangerous. That was the whole reason the event security was mainly werewolves, so they could pick them out from the low-magic witches and almost-magic humans, to know who to keep an eye on. He was here to get paid, and that would probably get cut if he let a hunter who smelled like he just spent weeks being used for magical target practice just wander in.

He’s not willing to die for a job, but he’d punch a lot of people for free, and this guy was already getting on his nerves. “I’m not supposed to be letting hunters in if they’re acting irritable or erratic, and you’re doing both.”

"Excuse me?" Shiv scoffs, cocking a brow as he sized him up. "Like what exactly? Like I actually belong here?" Since when did black-tie events employ muscle daddy bouncers? Whose idea was it to put this scrappy mutt in charge?

Shiv does the raccoon a favor and briefly bends down to let her hop off his shoulders. She lets herself down with a graceful slide and trots off to walk the rest of the red carpet. They're sure she won't run off too far; they'll catch up after dealing with this prick. Because Shiv knows a fight when they see one. And, admittedly, a deep part of Shiv is itching to rip into something, someone after a month staying still.

"Look. You don't know the kind of month I've been having; I really don't have the patience for this bullshit. It's not that serious. Just let me pass, mate." Shiv is going to attend this gala tonight. Whether they're going past this guy or bulldozing through the front entrance is up to him.

[howlthorne]

"Free drinks are a pretty powerful motivator, I guess. I'm not much of a wine guy." Witch or hunter? That's the question that this woman was bringing over, even if she hadn't said it. There was so much latent magic around her messing with his senses that he couldn't get a proper read on it. Witch-hunter was probably not the right term for it, that was a whole other sort of thing that he didn't want to interact with. Magic-hunter? Hunter with too many witch friends?

"New to town. Small talk is fine, when I'm not surrounded or working. This isn't really my kind of party." He said, looking her over. Witch or hunter? Remember your manners, Lu, you're on the job. He held out a hand for a handshake, "Lucas. Here to keep up that illusion of safety, I guess."

Irene had been keeping count —not of people exactly, but of the way the air shifted when they got too close. How the protective wards braided into her anklet pulsed low against her skin, rhythm steady and faint as a heartbeat. Most of the time, the signals faded as people passed. Shifters. Blooded. Witch-leaning types in perfume and veils. Expected things, in expected places.

It tugged like a thread caught in her ribs. Not alarming. Not yet. But enough to keep her watching.

She’d caught sight of him earlier, stalking the edge of the gala like he’d rather be anywhere else, every inch of him saying do not engage. Which, unfortunately for both of them, made her curious.

So when she finally took a break from orbiting the crowd and found herself near the same stretch of wall, she wasn’t exactly surprised he clocked her first.

“Sick of it already?” he said, voice low and edged in dry exhaustion. “Party’s only just starting.”

Irene glanced at him sidelong. Tall. Wound tight. Something animal just beneath the surface. Werewolf, probably. But she didn’t move. Instead, she let out a breath that almost passed for a laugh. Almost.

“I’m not really a party kind of girl,” she said, tone mild but not unfriendly. “Just here for the free wine and the illusions of safety.”

She looked back out across the room. The crowd had thickened —laughs too sharp, glamours too polished. The air thrummed with power, politics, and posturing.

Her anklet flared again.

“You new to Port Leiry?” she asked, not quite looking at him. “Or just bad at pretending to like small talk?”

A beat. Then her eyes flicked over to his again —not suspicious, exactly. Just measured. Wary in the way anyone with half a clue should be in a place like this.

“Irene,” she added, quiet but clear, offering him a name like a line across the sand, or a hand just shy of a handshake.

She didn’t know what he was. But she was pretty sure he hadn’t decided what she was yet either.

[howlthorne]

Lucas wasn’t 100% certain what the criteria for don’t let in any hunter who looks like they’re going to cause trouble was before now, but this guy gave that order some new clarity. The man had barely even noticed that his path was blocked, too busy losing a one-sided argument with a well-dressed raccoon that was trying to fix his hair, that really didn’t seem like the kind of imperious rich sort of thing that this event seemed to be catered towards.

Call it a hunch, call it a personal bias against hunters, but he at least had to stop the guy and figure out what his deal was. “I can’t let you in like this.”

Who: Closed [ @howlthorne ] When/Where: Conclave / 6:30 Red Carpet / Art Center Exterior

Shiv doesn't mean to make a dramatic entrance but the Port Leiry Zoo entourage makes anything subtle impossible. For once, it's not their fault. The stag has skipped town yet this raccoon refuses to leave.

And said racoon is insistent on fixing Shiv's hair. "It's perfectly fine. Stop trying to comb- Hey!" The hunter stumbles as the raccoon swats his hand away. He gasps in offense, looking away from the path ahead to look at this foul creature in the eye. "You bratty little baby. Fix your attitude or no fun snacks for you tonight. Only weenies-"

Suddenly Shiv hits a hard spot. Or rather, a meaty spot. Shiv turns to meet eyes with this meaty wall. Its a man. A wolf, no less.

Shiv forces a smile. "Ah. Hi."

"Can I help you, Sir?"

[howlthorne]

“He thinks I’m dead? It’s only been... what, a month? What’s today’s date?” It was hard to keep track of time when he was driving around, and he’s taken a long route with a lot of stops to reach Oregon. He’d called Cide to tell him he was leaving town, right? Or did he just plan to do it and forget? He was pretty sure he’d left someone a drunk voicemail a week or two ago, and he’d definitely thought that was his ex... but that was a pay-phone after losing his actual phone somewhere between South Carolina and Texas. He hadn’t bothered to get a new one yet, not when he was keeping himself too busy to really need one.

Someone with a number a few digits off from Cide’s probably woke up to something crazy on their answering machine. Damn it. “I found out I have some family here, so I came to see them.”

Thera shook her head. “Not here, like at the event.” She gesticulated at his entire being, “Here, here. Cide told me you were dead!”

A month ago one of her best friends had sent her a letter saying that his ex-husband had given missing and was probably dead. Classic Alcide hadn’t asked her to help or scary just very matter of factly was very upset about this development. But here he was, one of her closest friend’s husband twice removed. Perfectly fine and well and totally not dead. “Lu, Alcide thinks you are dead. How did you end up in Port Leiry? What did you do?”

[howlthorne]

He wrinkled his nose at the smell from the flask. It wasn’t like verbena really affected him, but it still always set off a warning in his mind. More often than not, it was the scent that hit before the underlying magic of a hunter’s tattoos ever even registered, and... yep, there it was. “I’m working the event. Keeping an eye out for guys like you.” Nope, that sounded like flirting. Backtrack. “Hunters who could cause trouble, I mean. Keep the verbena close, or we might have a problem.” 

There he goes, the obligatory warning. He didn’t particularly like hunters, anyways. He’d be looking for the exits or picking a fight if this was just a stranger in a bar, but this was somewhere that the supernaturals greatly outnumbered the hunters, and this guy didn’t seem like too much trouble to knock out, if it came down to it. “If you're not into parties, why come at all? There's got to be enough hunters here already.”

He didn't like being outnumbered so extremely, but he supposed he had done this to himself. So for now, as people (was that the right word?) still filtered in, he was keeping to the edges. He wanted to map out who he intended to steer clear of, just as much as he was looking out for allies he could stand to stop by and see. Besides, even when it wasn't loud, a roomful of people still found its ways to be overwhelming. There was too many people, a constant thrum of noise, and an ever-present pulse of (faint, but real) pain from his tattoo's supernatural sense. He already needed a break from it all, before anything really started.

It was way too soon to step out for a smoke, though. So he resigned himself to nursing a drink against the wall, eyes flitting over the crowd. Gin&tonic in hand, he found a good place to settle for a moment. It was only when the person next to him spoke up that he realized he hadn't payed much heed to who was directly by him here.

"Uh," he said, rather eloquently, "I'm not really one for parties, honestly." He can't read into any sense of unease he has, not with this whole place choking his senses. But statistically, he's speaking to someone supernatural. What kind, he doesn't know. But he slides his flask out and adds a touch of vervain to his drink now, while he's thinking of it (practicality always wins out over seeming polite). "What brings you to the wall?"

[howlthorne]

Lucas really didn’t expect to find any familiar faces here, but there she was. Thera hadn’t been one of his friends, pre se, but his ex-husband had a lot of witchy buddies all over the world, and she’d been close enough to him to end up at their first wedding. She’d always been friendly, though, and he was glad to see her, offering a warm smile. “Thera! I didn’t expect to see you here.” 

The you can’t possibly be here made him pause. She looked like she’d seen a ghost, and for a second, he turned his head to see if she really had. That was a lot of disbelief for a friend of a friend. “Why not? Supernatural event, they’re letting wolves in. Besides, I’m on the job.”

Closed Starter for @howlthorne

Where: The entrance to the Conclave Gala

Thera watches as Juniper and Irene surge in front of her. The three had supported each other, and silently (though in some cases obnoxious,y loudly) goaded each other into actually going to this event. This was good for them, they were young and needed to get out of the house. Thera….. well she had never felt more drained. She loved a party and yet as she took in the glimmering, welcoming surges of the magical energy emanating from the main room, she wanted to vomit.

She shouldn’t be here. Didn’t want to be here when they couldn’t be. She didn’t care if Kanta Shah never wanted to be anywhere near her after this experience, she just wanted him to wake up. To be able to haunt the corners of magical soirées like this.

She resisted wiping her palms on her silk dress. Didn’t want to ruin the fabric. So she lifted a hand to her head instead and adjusted her hair slightly, felt the loving scrape of amythst pins Graziella against her scalp. A small sign of relief.

As she looked back up, bracing herself for far away hum of people, a familiar thread caught her eye. Her eyes followed it, though she couldn’t believe it was there. Such a hopeful line. Both in nature and for her and as she followed, her eyes rested on a face she once thought dead. “Lu? You can’t possibly be here” she breathed.

[howlthorne]

Who: Open (3/5) When: Conclave, Cocktail hour

Lucas wasn’t stupid. He knew a werewolf-specific job was probably for something shady that he didn’t want to get involved in, but... uprooting his life and road tripping across the country to freak out and procrastinate meeting his only living family was expensive, and he needed the cash. Besides, how bad could it be? He’d thrown on something decent enough to not look like he’d wandered in off the street, cleaned up his appearance, and even got a haircut instead of just doing it himself in a mirror.  

Keep to the edges of the room, look vaguely intimidating, and keep an eye out for hunters who might cause trouble and any human that attracts it. Easy money.

Or, it should be. The last person to get on his nerves clearly mistook him for a waiter, snapping their fingers at him and watching him expectantly like he was a dog that was taking too long to learn a new trick, their drink order getting lost and jumbled beneath the sound of the music and the hum of the crowd. He wasn’t above pulling the deaf card to get out of that, cocking his head to the side and tapping his bad ear with a practiced look of regret on his face, the kind that said Oh I’m so sorry, there is nothing I would have wanted more than to hear your drink order instead of Snap at me like a dog again and I’ll take your glass and shove it so far up your—

Deep breath. Whatever. The asshole had wandered off without a fight, thankfully, and he was back to watching the crowd, leaning against the wall. He only spared a glance when someone came to lean on the same wall, taking a break from the crowd. They were on his good side, at least, so he didn't have to turn too much to hear them. 

“Sick of it already?” Lucas said, turning his head to the other person to try to get a read on them "Party's only just starting." 

[howlthorne]

The Conclave: Lucas is here as staff, and therefore has less freedom to wear what he likes. That being said, there is no way in hell he is buying a new suit jacket just because the people at this event are rich enough to have the sticks up their asses be gilded. He's not going all-out, he's just lucky he packed something suit jacket-like and one of his nicer pairs of earrings.

Lucas will be staying at the edges of this event, keeping a close eye on any hunters who may start trouble and humans who might need to be pulled out of it.

[howlthorne]

Lucas didn’t actively try to pick up scents from strangers, but really couldn't help it. He was used to being around other werewolves, and he was already getting the signs that this town was full of them. Already kind of concerning, since he was looking to get away from a lot of that sort of thing, but... well, it helped with trying to find ways to spend the next full moon if the people he’d been reaching out to about finding a pack to run with for the next month or so didn’t play out like he wanted. It always paid to have a backup plan, and in a new place like this, reserving a rage room for the day of the full moon and trying to hunt down somewhere he could lock his wolf indoors for the night was the best plan he could make. 

The woman at the desk smelled like a wolf, which made this easier. He smiled as he approached the counter, keeping his voice low enough to avoid being overheard too easily, even in the mostly-empty lobby. “Do you guys let people reserve rooms? I'm gonna need one for whatever the day of the next full moon is.”

For: @howlthorne Where: The Den

He's new, they think, for the way he stands in front of the place looking almost kind of lost. He's new to this place at least, they're sure, they'd remember his face, and surely his scent, where a wolf lies calm under his skin. But even then, it's not a flashing warning light that comes to them at his sight, he doesn't look like a threat. Not one of Yuisa's then, and certainly not an ass, or he'd be forcing his way inside already.

They offer a smile, a soft jerk of their head to acknowledge his presence as they say goodbye too the last couple of friends that were having fun in one of the rooms. They only look back to him when they're done with the teens, looking for a place to let their anger out.

"Hey there, coming in to let loose?." The question is friendly, a welcoming smile on their lips. Trying not to come off intimidating even if their wolf is almost wishing to make his see they were in charge. They don't need that now, not here. "We have... special rooms, for all kind of folks."

[howlthorne]

Lucas Thorne as Memes || Part 1

[howlthorne]

( David Casteñada/ male/ he/him) — Lucas Thorne has been living in Port Leiry for like a day. They currently work as a Unemployed, and are 31 years old. No one is sure if they’re actually a Werewolf or if they’re connected to Harford. They tend to be quite Stubborn and Hot Headed, but can also be Loyal and Caring.— ( JJ/ EST/ they/them/ 21/ needles)

Name: Lucas Jesse Thorne Occupation: Currently unemployed Age: 31 Sexuality: Queer Species: Werewolf Clan/Pack/Coven?: Harford Hometown: Washington, D.C - Later West Virginia Relationship Status: Divorced x2 (Same guy) Personality Traits: Stubborn, Hot-Headed, Cocky, Loyal, Caring, Romantic

TW: Murder, cannibalism, kidnapping, child abuse, infidelity

001. You’re six years old, and you walk down to your kitchen to find a monster hunched over the bloody pile that was your family. The world blurs, and time seems to freeze as the monster sinks its teeth into your arm. Just as quickly, you’re free, free to struggle and almost make it halfway down the hall to your baby sister’s room before the darkness sets in and you fall. When you come back to reality, you’re being carried by a man with blood in his hair, wearing clothes from your father’s closet. You ask about your family, you cry, kick, scream, and he tells you they’re dead, tells you he didn’t mean it, tells you he was the monster, and you’re one too. You ask about your sister, and he looks guilty, looks back, and he tells you she’s gone. You don’t have anyone, anymore. 

002. The man’s son was killed by a hunter, he tells you. His wolf had traced the scent to your house, and he wasn’t in control, wasn’t aware of how vicious he had been with your family. Your new room is full of clothes that are too big, posters for bands you don’t like, unfinished homework on a desk for classes you’re not old enough to be in. The next full moon you learn you’re a monster too, and he tells you he’s part of a pack, that they’ll take care of you, that they’re a family, and the word makes you want to throw yourself into anyone's arms and cry until everything feels less awful. A boy who’s lost his family, and a father who’s lost a son. It just makes sense, doesn’t it? 

003. Your father always gets antsy right before the full moon, and tempers rise in the worst kind of way. You started yelling back months ago, and something’s got you getting bold, getting careless. Your skull cracks open against the kitchen counter, and your right ear never works the same again. He pulls you out of the hospital before the sun sinks too low, but your wolf doesn’t take kindly to stitches. What could have been a tiny mark on your scalp is a large scar, left from a night spent dragging a claw through half-healed wounds when the skin stitching together began to itch. 

004. You do the math sometime in highschool, poking holes in the story. Your family died under a crescent moon, and while you can’t turn on one, you know your father is one of the kind of wolves that can, and keep his mind in the process. It’s your parents, your baby sister, the life you were going to have, supposed to have, that you’re thinking of when you finally do it. It takes a lot to poison a werewolf, but wolfsbane grows all over these mountains, and you’re more patient than you look. You pack a bag and skip town that night, and never look back.

005. The nerves all around your broken arm are screaming at you to do something, but when the doctor asks you to rate your pain on a scale of 1-10, the best line you can manage through the pain is “I’m looking at it. Ten.” You fall fast, and you fall hard, tripping over all your hangups and worries and falling right into a marriage for the best two years of your life. You feel safe, you feel loved, and for the first time in a while, full moons aren’t as awful when you know that your wolves get along, that you’re more likely to wake up with him right there. 

006. You’re pulling away, and it’s unraveling your marriage. You’re pulling away from him, and you don’t know how to stop. Something is wrong, something you don’t know how to put into words, something you let sit heavy in your chest as he throws himself into work more and more. Eventually, it becomes unbearable. You know it’s wrong, you know you’re being stupid, but that doesn’t stop you from taking someone home when you know he’s working late. When you think he’s working late. You break his heart in the process of breaking your own, sign the papers when his lawyer sends them, and you still can’t find the right words for why you did it. 

007. It’s hard to keep away from him when your wolves still act like a pack. Waking up after full moons within shouting distance of him leads to walks back to town together, and something has to fill the silence. You’re falling back into what could have been, and it’s beautiful enough to end up drunk in a courthouse, saying “I do” all over again. It doesn’t last. The relationship is dead. The "what if’s" are finally quieted, the dreams about what could have been if you’d never fucked it up are set aside. You’re both better off without trying to drag the corpse of your marriage out of its grave. 

008. You learn she’s alive by mistake. You’re getting your old last name back, calling hospitals back in D.C to try to find your real birth certificate, not the fakes your not-father gave you with his own last name, and you start hearing things that make you hope. You dig, try your hand at social media searching, and eventually you find it: Port Leiry. You pull up your roots, buy a one-way bus ticket, and don’t even bother to say goodbye before you go.