Jacob~
I never imagined I'd find myself at a run-down carnival, tossing plastic rings like some carefree mortal while a stubborn human plotted her petty revenge on a smirking game vendor. But here I was—laughing. Actually laughing.
Me.
The Wolf Spirit. Mist. The first howl beneath the moon. Father of all werewolves.
I've walked through centuries as breath and shadow—woven from wind, forged in earth's core, sparked by starlight, and shaped from ocean's sorrow. My brothers carry the weight of singular elements. I… carry them all.
And yet here I stood, behind a woman who was hurling rings not at bottles but at actual people, her pout deepening with every missed shot.
And gods help me—I was enjoying it.
Easter had this maddening effect on me. She could be sarcastic and fiery one moment, soft and unsure the next, and somehow I found myself chasing each version of her like they were rare stars that only I had the honor of witnessing.
