Fantasy New Dawn, New Troubles CS Thread

[Autumn_Leaf]

OOC
Lore

Name:

Age: (aiming for 20+ please)

Pronouns:

Sexuality:

Wolf Form: (anything works, just keep in mind the wolf form is just a normal wolf, just larger, so try to keep it realistic)

Height: (both in wolf form and not. Werewolves usually get up to the size of a horse, smaller or maybe even a bit larger)

Appearance: (Realistic FC preferred but description or art works fine too. )

Personality:

Bio: (please write up to 2-3 paragraphs at least. How did you become apart of New Tide, are you a recently turned werewolf? Or a pureblood )

Feel free to add whatever else would like, this is just an outline of the basics.

I will heart react your sheet if approved!​

 

[Autumn_Leaf]

Yeva Petryk

❛ The Legacy Bearer ❜

Melancholic Ending

Soft and Furious

I didn't want this

code by opaline

I am trying my best, but why did it have to be me?

• .
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  general

  name

  Yeva Petryk
  

  nickname

  The Legacy Bearer
  

  age

  24
  

  Pronouns

  She/her
  

  sexuality

  Pansexual
  
• i.

  ii.

  iii.

  iv.

  v.

  appearance

  height

  5'4
  

  Build

  Petite
  

  description

  
  At 5’4”, Yeva is small but unmistakable, a presence that demands attention without ever asking for it. She doesn’t need height to be intimidating—it’s in the way she carries herself. The quiet, steady gaze that dissects a room before she even steps inside. The way her shoulders roll with a casual confidence, as if nothing in the world could shake her.
  
  Her dark brown hair, often slightly unkempt but effortlessly cool, cascades past her shoulders like a stormcloud caught in motion. It frames her face—sharp, defined, striking. Beneath strong brows, her eyes burn with something feral, something untamed—a dark brown when the light hits just right, holding a weight that speaks of things seen, things lost, and things yet to come.
  
  A septum ring rests snugly against her nose, snake bites frame her lower lip, and large gauge earrings stretch her lobes—a collection of metal and ink that adds to her raw, untamed aesthetic.
  
  Her skin is a canvas of ink and scars, each telling a story she doesn’t always care to share. Black and grey tattoos weave up her arms and hands—creeping vines, delicate petals, twisting branches. They sprawl across her body in intricate patterns, a blend of beauty and defiance, of nature’s resilience mirrored in her own.
  
  But beneath the art lie reminders of the past that refused to fade. Old wounds—gunshots to her shoulder and thigh—scar her pale skin, roughened reminders of the night survival came at a cost. She doesn’t hide them. Doesn’t explain them. They are simply a part of her now.
  
  Her style is effortless rebellion—dark, oversized layers that move with her, swallowing her frame yet never diminishing her presence. There’s a raw edge to her, something punk yet ethereal, like she exists between shadow and light.
  
  Yeva doesn’t need to stand tall to be intimidating.
  
  She is a wolf wearing human skin, and everyone who looks too closely knows it.
  

  Wolf Form

  
  Yeva’s wolf form is a ghost among the trees, a wraith in the snow. While smaller than most werewolves, she is built for speed, cunning, and precision. What she lacks in brute force, she makes up for in ferocity, relentless instinct, and lethal agility.
  
  Her coat is a deep, dark mix of earthy browns and blacks, shifting under the light like smoke woven into fur. It allows her to blend seamlessly into the dense forests of Blackridge, making her a predator unseen until it's too late. Golden, piercing eyes cut through the shadows—sharp, intelligent, always watching, always calculating.
  
  Beneath her thick fur, scars tell her story. A wound at her shoulder and thigh, remnants of the night she barely escaped with her life, remind her that she is a survivor, not a victim. They ache in the cold, a constant ghost of the past, but they do not slow her down.
  
  She moves like a shadow—silent, swift, and deadly. Where larger wolves rely on sheer power, Yeva outthinks, outmaneuvers, and outlasts. She does not hesitate. She does not falter. In the chaos of battle, she is a storm—a force of nature bound in fur and fangs.
  
  
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  v.

  persona

  virtues

  
  

  • Fierce & Headstrong: She’s not reckless, but she trusts her gut over logic. If she feels something is wrong, she’ll act first and justify it later.
  • Observant & Introspective: A quiet watcher. Yeva has always been more interested in understanding the world than blindly following it. She sees patterns, cycles, connections—both in nature and in people. She can read a room, sense when something is off, and knows when someone is lying. A woman of few words when needed, but when she speaks, it’s with weight. She doesn’t waste words.
  • Loyal to the Bone (But Slow to Trust): She loves deeply but doesn’t show it easily. She won’t say “I care about you”—she’ll stand in front of a bullet for you instead and She has a soft spot for outcasts and strays, people who remind her of herself, even if she doesn’t say it aloud.

  vices

  
  

  • Anger & The Struggle for Control: Her rage is always there, simmering. She’s learned to control it, to swallow it down, but it never really leaves. Her father taught her patience, control—but after his death, that control is slipping. The war inside her is real—does she uphold his ideals, or does she let herself become what she once ran from?
  • Reckless Self-Sacrifice: Yeva throws herself into danger without hesitation, valuing others' safety over her own. She sees pain as a price worth paying and refuses to ask for help, even when she’s at her breaking point. A dead leader can’t lead, but she hasn’t learned that yet.
  • Brick Emotional Walls: Yeva keeps people at arm’s length, hiding behind sarcasm and silence. Trust doesn’t come easily, and even when it does, she’s always waiting for people to leave. Letting others in means giving them the power to hurt her—and she’s been hurt enough.

  likes

  Playing guitar. Morning Coffee paired with a smoke. Going for long hikes to clear the mind, in wolf form and human, it doesn't matter
  

  dislikes

  People snapping back at her. Gun fire. Loud Music
  

  fears

  Not living up to her fathers expectations, even after his death.
  
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  v.

  background

  
  Yeva Petryk was born into a world already stained with loss. Her mother never got to hold her, never got to whisper promises of a life filled with warmth and safety. Instead, she entered a world of absence, of grief left unspoken, where her father, Victor, did his best to raise her while carrying a wound that never truly healed.
  
  Her early years were relentless—crying through the nights, needing warmth, needing love—and yet, Victor had no time to grieve. He had to move forward. For her. For the pack he dreamed of. It wasn’t until Arthur entered their lives that their home truly became something more than just a place to survive. Between the two men, the walls of that abandoned house became something stronger—a sanctuary, a foundation, a future.
  
  For the first few years, Yeva was kept at home, homeschooled until she could be trusted to keep her shifting in check. It wasn’t easy. She was curious, reckless, and prone to emotional outbursts that triggered her transformation. At first, it was uncontrollable—she’d shift out of anger, fear, excitement, and more often than not, she’d chew through furniture when she got restless.
  
  Victor and Arthur worked tirelessly to help her gain control. Honing her senses, mastering her instincts, learning to think rather than react. Over time, she grew more disciplined, but the wildness in her never fully disappeared.
  
  When she was finally sent to public school, Yeva remained distant from her peers—not an outcast, not bullied, just uninterested in their world. While other kids played at recess, she would sit at the edge of the tree line, watching the small, intricate cycles of nature—ants building, birds hunting, predators and prey locked in their endless dance.She understood it. The world adapts. Those who refuse to change don’t survive.
  
  As the New Tide pack expanded, Skjoldr took notice. Threats turned to ultimatums. Skjoldr had the numbers, the history, the power—they could have wiped them out if they wanted to. And some of New Tide’s members wanted war. Many had suffered under Skjoldr’s iron rule, had lost family, had scars to prove it. Yeva saw Skjoldr as a disease—an infection that refused to evolve. The traditionalists, the ones who refused to bend, to adapt, to change. To her, the truce her father brokered was nothing more than a temporary stall before Skjoldr did what they always did—take. But Victor didn’t see it that way.
  
  The day he forged the peace deal with Skjoldr, Yeva’s world cracked. She was furious, vocal, unrelenting. She fought him on it, openly, recklessly. What started as a venting session spiraled into something worse. The kind of argument that left bruises—not just on skin, but deep, under the surface, where words cut sharper than claws. By the time the shouting stopped, Yeva did the only thing that made sense to her at that moment.
  She ran.
  
  This wasn’t just rebellion. It was fear. She didn’t want to stay and watch everything she built come crumbling down. She didn’t want to witness what Skjoldr would inevitably do to them. So she left, leaving behind her father, her family, her home.
  
  For the next few years, Yeva drifted from place to place, immersing herself in a new kind of pack—not of werewolves, but of outcasts. Runaways, wanderers, escape artists looking for a place to belong. She hopped trains, busked for cash, learned to blend in with the kind of people who lived without roots. And in those years, she buried the wolf inside her. No shifting, no hunting, no reminders of the life she left behind.
  
  At first, it was freedom. Then it became suffocating. The drinking got heavier. The packs of cigarettes piled up. The nights stretched long, sleepless, filled with moments where she looked in the mirror and saw nothing familiar staring back. And yet, why go back? The same life, the same battles, the same problems—it was too much.
  So she kept going, spiraling deeper into whatever it was she had become.
  
  That life ended on the wrong train, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. They had hopped onto a freight car, not knowing it was loaded with something that didn’t belong to them. Drugs. Smuggled goods. And the people expecting the shipment? They didn’t need witnesses.
  
  The night erupted into chaos. Rounds fired. Blood sprayed across cold steel. And for the first time in two years, Yeva changed. By the time it was over, she was the only one left standing. Wounded, shaken, horrified by what she had done. The only instinct left in her screamed at her to run home. So she did.
  
  Yeva traveled miles upon miles, surviving off the land, running until her body failed her. She barely made it to New Tide’s territory before collapsing from exhaustion. Victor and Arthur found her, nursed her back to health. Not everyone in the pack was thrilled about her return. Some resented her for leaving. Some saw her as a traitor. Yeva couldn’t blame them. She had abandoned them. She had abandoned him.
  
  But Victor? He forgave her without hesitation. Because he always knew she would return. Maybe not in the same state, maybe not as the same person, but she was always going to come back.
  
  In the weeks that followed, Yeva and her father repaired what was broken between them. They grew close again, and one night, Victor confided something in her—something that weighed heavy on her shoulders even before his death. "No matter what happens, it has to be you. The pack needs you." She hated the idea. She wasn’t a leader. She was a runner.
  
  Then Victor was found dead. His body, broken, brutalized. Left like a message. A warning.
  
  And suddenly, the weight of his words crushed her. Now, Yeva stands at the crossroads of her father’s legacy. Does she uphold his vision of unity, of survival through peace? Or does she let the hatred festering inside her take over, and finally finish what she wanted to start years ago? Because Skjoldr has to pay. And Yeva doesn’t know if she’s strong enough to ignore the part of her that wants to burn them to the ground.
  
  
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  v.

  miscellaneous

  Relationships

  
  

  1. Arthur - Arthur has been a constant in Yeva’s life for as long as she can remember—a second father, a mentor, and the closest thing to stability she’s ever had. While Victor taught her discipline and control, Arthur gave her patience and understanding. He was the one who patched her up after fights, listened when she was too angry to speak, and never judged her for running when she did. Even when she returned, broken and lost, he welcomed her back without hesitation. Now, with Victor gone, Arthur is the last piece of her foundation. But she knows he worries—that the rage inside her is growing, that she might not make the choices her father would have wanted. And deep down, she fears he’s right.
  2. Zon - Yeva and Zon were once closer than family—best friends, confidants, two restless souls who understood each other in ways no one else could. Even after Zon was turned, they remained inseparable, bound by shared struggles and unspoken trust. But the night Yeva left, that bond shattered. Their last conversation wasn’t a goodbye—it was a fight. Zon saw her leaving as betrayal, an abandonment of everything they had built together. Now, years later, that wound hasn’t healed. Yeva can feel the resentment in every glance, every cold interaction. And worst of all? Zon has every right to feel that way.

  
  

  a list no way

  
  

  • put a list?

  
  

  tag

  you get the idea at this point. also scrolls like all the others.

 

[Lycanious]

title

artist

The Guardian

R

equisite.

name

Arthur Miligan

a.k.a.

Art, Artie

age

48

gender

Male (He/Him)

sexuality

Gay (but clueless)

height

6'5 ft

wolf breed

Grey Wolf

a

ppearance.

Human form

With a broad build and an impressive height, Arthur tends to tower over the average individual. His appearance in general suggests the story of a man who has seen some rough times in his past, with tanned skin riddled in callouses and old scars and a left shoulder that always seems to warrant complaints about various aches and pains. Arthur maintains an older appearance, with wrinkles apparent and once-dark hair that has now almost entirely been replaced with long strands of silver. Likewise his beard is now mostly grey, with only a faint peppering of black to suggest the hair colour of his younger years. Arthur has bright green eyes, though his left is now clouded over and features a large claw-shaped gash that runs over it, down his cheek, and stops partially down his neck. Sometimes he's been known to either wear an eyepatch over this or part his long hair in a manner that tends to cover it, largely to avoid drawing unwanted attention towards the old injury.

In terms of clothing Arthur tends to dress for comfort and practicality, rarely seen without a simple shirt and a warm, thick jacket, alongside of warm pants and a set of heavy boots. He tends to avoid any jewelry, largely out of concern that he could come into contact with silver.

Wolf form

Like his human form, Arthur's wolf form can be said to be on the larger end of the scale. At a glance he has been mistaken for a bear several times in his past, though it is an explanation he is quite happy to run with if it helps to take off suspicion of anything more supernatural lingering in the area. Once upon a time he was said to have an unrivaled strength that matched his behemoth size, but nowadays the combination of his age and old injuries has put increasing challenges on that label. Like his hair, Arthur's once-dark fur pattern now sees a lot more patches of silver, though his eyes still retain the green and clouded combination of his human form. Arthur also tends to walk with a small limp in this form, avoiding placing too much pressure on his left front limb.

p

syche.

With an intimidating appearance and a seemingly permanent scowl etched onto his features, it would be easy to mistake Arthur for an aggressive or unyielding individual. Indeed, on first introductions he can come off as rather gruff and distant, tending to opt not to say much unless spoken to first and otherwise appearing to be stoic in nature. Once spending some time to get to know him though, most individuals can agree that the lack of conversation seems to just stem from an introverted personality and a wariness of strangers. Arthur can be surprisingly soft-spoken and levelheaded, and it becomes increasingly clear that his reputation as one of Father's fearsome right-hand wolves over the years is more of a part that he plays up for outsiders to the pack to deter threats, rather than any real viciousness on his behalf.

To The New Tide pack, it is well known that he is less ferocious beast and more just a tired old man that would much rather solve internal conflicts with words and common sense than taking it to a physical altercation. For some members he is a respected source of guidance and has fulfilled a mentor-type role for them, helping to try and find them a place to belong and generally keeping the newer and more naive members out of trouble. To other members he is too soft, willing to forgive and forget far too easily, and no longer in his prime enough to stand his ground with the likes of the Skjoldr pack should things turn more sour between them.

h

istory

Arthur tends not to talk much about his early life, other than a few offhand comments that suggest that his relationship with his family is a distant one at best. As his voice would suggest, it is known that he was born and raised in Scotland, though he has yet to reveal a specific town or the reason why he moved from there. Other comments from the man have also suggested that he struggled to forge friendships in the past, leaving only a handful of individuals that he believes himself to be close to. He has spoken before of The New Tide pack being considered as the closest thing he has to family instead, and happily welcomes others feeling the same sentiment towards the pack. Arthur is also known to have been born a werewolf, and got into several scuffles as a wolf before moving from Scotland.

It is perhaps of no surprise that Arthur quickly was drawn to the philosophy of Father, being a werewolf that was raised on the old ways but finding no loyalty towards them. He has been present since the beginning formation of The New Tide pack, and served an early role in proving that its members could hold strong but without having to resort to cruelty or brutality. Arthur essentially became an early guardian for the pack, never wanting to pick a fight, but holding a fearsome enough appearance and the strength to back it up that he could end one pretty quickly if he wanted to. He was also immovably loyal towards Father, and helped to forge trust in him from others in the early formation days.

With Father's recent passing, Arthur has been notably pensive and withdrawn since the news. He had been friends with the man for years after all, and is still very much in a processing and grieving mindset despite others crying for immediate retaliation. As of now, when motivated, he mostly focuses on just trying to keep the pack together and keep them focused on what they should do next. He is one of the werewolves who supports Yeva's sudden new leadership role, and has so far done his best to try and advise and support her while still reeling from the loss.

g

allery.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[First Rose]

scroll

Fire

Pvris

The

Stray

persona

&

attributes

virtues

vices

backstory

&

connections

name.

Tijani Zondai Ndlovu

alias.

" Zon "

age.

22

gender.

Female

Pronouns.

She/Her

Sexuality.

Undecided

Wolf Breed.

Plains Wolf

"I’m rather close to locking you all in a beautiful house fire to avoid letting anyone else take another thing away from me.....
That's a joke, laugh."

eyes.

Auburn

hair.

Dark Brown

skin.

Hickory

ethnicity.

Zimbabwean

height.

1.82m [] 5' 12"

body mods.

Several piercings & Littered in Tatts

faceclaim.

Noomaad

overview.

As of recently, Zon has plummeted down a deep chasm of her own grief; mere fragments of her more vibrant self remain. She is consumed by the need to project strength—a pitiful facade she grips onto by threads, fearing that any sign of weakness will cast her as less than the force she wants to be. She's turned callous, vulger, and impossible to deal with, needling anyone close enough with sharp words and even a sharper temper until she's cursed or fought; convinced the display proves she belongs. But for all her bitterness, her intellectuality accepts that she needs human connection, knows that seclusion will be a sad, slow, and silent spiral into madness; so she clings to only people she has left. Even if only to shut-up and sit down before a soft fire, bathing in the presence of those who will tolerate her for a night.

"That old man was always the bigger person, through and through. Now look at where that got him.."

style.

Deliberate to every placement of button and fabric, Zon's choice of apparel is comparable to a lion's mane. Colors must be bold, cuts need to be sharp, and a touch of chaos must appear but only effortless. Zon dresses to take up space, to seem louder, appear larger, and more dangerous than she actually is; yet accented with a completely unbothered claim to the exertion. Some days she may choose a high-collar fur-lined jacket that broadens her silhouette; appended by heavy boots, or perhaps bare soles, depending on how civilized she wants to appear that day and whom she needs to tear a new one out of. Naturally, Zon is never seen without some sort of jewelry or metal of some kind, she could care less of their fashion. She needs something to clink when she moves so her presence is known before she arrives.
No, the young lycan does not want to be bothered about why there are small irritated gashes under her ears and around her wrists; yes, she's realized it was dumb to think she could out-stubborn the potency of her silver allergy that still bemuses her.

Human Form.

Without needing to try, Zon's natural height brings her head taller than most, and unfortunately her ego a bit more inflated than need be. Nonetheless, she's built lithe and toned to condense her strength for small numerous explosions in speed and finesse. Though she may not be optimized for brutality, she is fortified in resilience, as her skin attests. Winding between the many Bantu tattoos of her family's tribe, are raised scarification patterns marking memory of those she's lost, carved with purpose and reverence by her design. It's how she grieves, sacrificing the temple of her body to uplift those closest to her heart, ensuring their memory does not die. Her most prominent wound lies in the center of her face, a jagged scar running from her temple and slashing down the bridge of her nose—an unhealed memory marking the night of her turning. The injury left her right eye blood-red, a sharp contrast to its twin.

Wolf Form.

Her fur is dark, a mix of deep charcoal and hints of lighter, almost ghostly undertones of bronze that shift with the light. It’s thick around her neck and shoulders, giving her an imposing, almost regal presence. Her eyes mirror her human form, one smoldering red beneath the shadow of a scar that barely disturbs the symmetry of her untouched, youthful frame.
For now, she still carries the wildness of a new lycan, unrefined, more instinct than control. She loses her careful calculation behind her wolf guise, composed of sheer aggression and an unbridled rage much more volatile than its human counterpart. Zon despises it, believing such instincts and primal-ness to be a handicap than anything else. Her mind was the one thing that put her ahead, now she explodes at the hint of an off smell. Suffice to say, she'll stay bipedal as much as possible, only truly trusting herself to don such a form around older, experienced wolves who can deal with her outburst in quick succession.

fears.

Taking life - Zon holds no qualms to a good fight, committing brutalization if necessary, no hesitation; but she cannot take a life. The idea of her hands red with death makes her sick to her stomach.
Found by her Family - The rest lie in Zimbabwe, unbeknownst to what happened to her fathers and her little brother.. to what happened to her. What they'd think terrifies her, she rather be believed as dead.
Forgetting her Past - It's why she commits to her same daily schedule in the city despite the complete topple of her past life, without it, she fears losing the last bit of her identity.

hobbies.

- Writing Poetry
- Studying Constellations/Sitting Under the Stars
- Tattooing
- Food

ailments.

- Near blind in right eye

Honest

"I lie when it’s useful. Otherwise, what’s the damn point?"

Charitable

"If you need help, ask, I rather aid then watch you look stupid."

Diplomatic

"Jokes on me, I get it, I really don't need to hear this for the next 5 hours, if you don't mind."

Loyal

"I could leave. I should leave. But I won’t."

Deliberate

"You mistake my recklessness for stupidity. That’s your problem."

Pessimistic

"Bet you ten bucks something’s gonna go wrong. Actually, never mind, I don’t bet on guarantees."

Contemptuous

"Respect is earned, sweetheart, and you’re standing here acting like you bought it at a discount."

Pompous

"You’d be a lot more useful if you listened to me. Or just shut up. Either works."

Vulgar

"Fuck around and find out—I’m real generous with the finding out part."

Temperamental

"I don’t have a temper. I have a perfectly reasonable reaction to bullshit."

"When a heart breaks, it don't break even, no. What am I supposed to do when the best part of me was always you~" [Breakeven - The Script]

history.

Much earlier than her days turned, a select few knew the sanguine neuroscience major, as Tijani, a charismatic young lady with a large heart and a brazen ambition to learn. Her family, the particular portion that moved over from Zimbabwe, settled down in an old, ample manor on the side of the country. Her fathers, Kofi & Juma Nvodu were brilliant minds who brought home riches at the expense of much needed respite among their loved ones. It was a heavy ache each of them felt in their hearts, but it wasn’t just about them. Kofi had committed his life to neurosurgery whilst his partner had taken many rewards for his renowned novels; they were hardworking, and neither had intention of taking a breath until they’d amassed enough wealth and sources to achieve another house large enough to hold the rest of their family. Between Tijani and her younger brother, Neo, it was explained to them, they too had a role in their family’s dream. For they were fated for greatness, and their paths to greatness would be paved for them.

Everything Tijani could achieve was splayed before her on a neat red carpet rolled out before her feet. School was paid for, yet she took on a dozen scholarships to assure she was worth it; grades were aced, yet she volunteered full-time, ensuring they were earned. She would not disappoint, lest her very ambition be ripped from her soul, a bold stance her reality took the pleasure of fulfilling.

It was amidst one of many weekends spent outdoors, humoring Neo’s anarchic imagination that everything began to change. The two, either no older than 16, had wandered deep into the woods, farther than they’d ever trekked before, chasing after one of Neo’s whims. What initially posed as a harmless adventure quickly turned into a desperate search for Neo under the thick moonlit wilderness. Tijani searched between every thicket, under every bush with little luck, panic constricted her soul until she heard him—laughing, giggling, unharmed. His voice drew her racing steps, until it brought her just a breath away from the nose of a massive, towering, mesmerizing wolf.

The wolf didn’t lash out, oddly enough, didn’t growl, only observed, and when Tijani scooped up her brother and fled, the wolf turned its back. Something settled deep in her chest that night they returned home, the unwavering urge to see it again.

From then on, she and Neo returned to that far nook of the woods whenever they could, searching for the creature. Their curiosity paid off—revealing not one, but a pack of them, all unique and beautiful. New Tide, they later came to know them as; lycanthropes, hidden right beneath humanity’s nose for generations. What began as routine spying during late afternoons turned into something deeper. Tijani and Neo soon brought gifts, leftover meals, blankets, snacks, even brushes to smooth their wild coats, anything to help the small family living in the wilderness. It was a secret haven, a place where the grip of destiny and fate could not reach. New Tide became Tijani’s home away from home, a space of freedom, far from the expectations her family pressed upon her shoulders.

But all great things have their fall.

Blackridge’s cruel sentinels took notice, Skjodr would have no humans skulking about this deep and this close to their territory, if only to be humored by the likes of New Tide.

Oblivious to such, Tijani sought to share her new world with her fathers, but knowing they’d surely protest the truth, she brought them under the guise of assisting Juma with research for his novel; convincing them to venture into the woods beneath a full moon. She wanted them to see the transformation of the pack, to understand the beauty of what she came to love.

Skjodr had all but been waiting to strike.

Before the four could make it hardly halfway, the night became a blur of fangs, screams, and crimson. The small family couldn’t even comprehend their death before it came, leaving all but disfigured corpses, and a girl, broken, barely clinging to life.

New Tide found her.
Father, found her.

Nursing her back to health, he staked her side through the fevered nightmares and the raw animal hunger that came with her turn. When the jumbled sensations and sporadic urges finally lulled, Father finally delivered the truth. Her family— her dads, her brother— were gone, leaving her to carry with her the same affliction as him, lycanthropy. He offered her a place in New Tide, promised her warm meals, even warmer company, a place to belong, if she’d take it. Young Tijani, with nowhere else to go, accepted the offer, at least until she was strong enough to ruin Skjodr.

For the heavy months to come, Tijani refused to drown in grief; instead, she carved the memories of her family into her skin, their souls etched in the ink and scarification along her body. She would carry them with her, living through them, and continue on as if nothing monumental had ever changed. She kept her manor clean, her joh as a tattoo artist, her classes, and ran her errands as she normally would; still not quite ready to let go of it all. Though she chose to take a chance, to learn from Father’s wild, unkempt ways of survival. His guidance made it easier to feel her loss, to channel it into a different sensation that wasn’t pricking into her flesh… Nonetheless, she still battles her nature to this day, sure as rain that she can defy the primal instincts that can so easily tether her resolve. A lesson Father once told her that she’d learn eventually, whether she wished to or not. Tijani never particularly understood what he meant by such.

Father had her highest respect, and the debt of her life, though as much as she revered him, Tijani never shared his softness—especially toward Skjodr. They had slaughtered her family, and yet he dared not raise a hand when they remained a threat. Out of loyalty, she had temporarily quelled her seething wraith by getting to know the new family she’d soon sew her being within. If nothing else, she bit her tongue in light of trust, hoping he had some greater plan in mind.

But now, Father is gone.
He had been too damned foolish to ever see it coming, and Zon had been far too hopeful to stop it before it began… all of them had been. Every single one of them knew this little ‘truce’ was nothing but a ticking bomb, a delay to the inevitable, and here they were, looking down at a corpse leaden practically by their hands.

Quicker than she’d like to admit, Zon’s losing herself as well as her patience under the entire ordeal. For now, she waits for the pack’s move, but eventually…

She, will move, and there will be nothing to stop her from taking what's owed to her since the night her world was torn apart. The bloodshed must end. And if it takes more blood to do it, so be it. She will not allow another loss without a fight.

family.

Kofi Nantale — father (Deceased)
Juma Ndlovu — father (Deceased)
Neo Ndlovu — brother (Deceased)

Yeva

.....

Arthur

.....

others

....

filler

 

[animegirl20]

Name:
Erica Rivers

Age:
20

Pronouns:
she/her

Sexuality:
Heterosexual

Spoiler: Wolf Form

Height:
Human - 5'6"
Wolf - 4'3"

Personality:
On the surface, she’s warm, optimistic, and approachable, someone who radiates a sense of hope even in the darkest of situations. Her bubbly, friendly demeanor is the mask she wears to protect herself and others from seeing the vulnerability lurking underneath. Erica learned early on that if she didn’t keep her spirits high, the overwhelming darkness of her past could consume her. As a result, she often pushes herself to be the cheerful, reliable member of the group, the one who picks up the slack when others are struggling. Her optimism is contagious, and she’s always there to lend a hand or offer words of encouragement when others need it most.

However, Erica’s easygoing nature often masks her deep insecurities. Having grown up with a strong sense of familial love before losing everything, she carries a fear of abandonment and rejection. This fear makes her fiercely loyal to those she cares about, especially Levi, who became her surrogate father. While she has learned to control her new werewolf abilities, she’s still haunted by the wild, untamed side of herself that she struggles to suppress. Despite her outgoing personality, Erica has a tendency to overthink things.

Erica’s time with Levi has shaped her into someone who believes deeply in the power of choice and unity. She’s reluctant to conform to the old, rigid rules of werewolf society and has little tolerance for the narrow-mindedness of packs like Skjoldr. Her experiences with Levi have instilled in her a belief that werewolves should not be bound by bloodlines or ancient traditions but rather by the strength of their bonds and the trust they share.

Bio:
Erica’s life before she became a werewolf was simple and full of promise, living with her parents in a quiet town nestled in the Cascade Mountains. Her family wasn't rich, but they were content. That peaceful existence was shattered one fateful night when a rogue werewolf, driven by bloodlust, tore through her home, slaughtering her parents before turning its attention to Erica. Barely surviving the attack, she was left with a deadly wound and a curse. In her final moments of consciousness, the rogue bit her, passing on the werewolf’s curse before leaving her to die in the wreckage. The transformation was agonizing, a painful fusion of pain, confusion, and newfound power. When Erica awoke, the world felt different, sharper, and more intense. She now had the senses of a wolf and the strength of a predator, but she was alone, lost in the vast wilderness. She was only 9.

For weeks, Erica wandered aimlessly, unable to control her transformation, afraid of herself and the dangers she now posed. In the forest’s darkest depths, she encountered a figure, a seasoned, older werewolf. His name was Levi, and he took Erica in. Levi was a rogue wolf, an outsider who had long since abandoned the old traditions of pack life. He had seen too much of the world’s cruelty to care about old bloodlines, and he wasn’t bound by any pack’s rules. Instead, he adopted Erica as his own, training her to master her transformations and guiding her through the process of embracing her new identity. Levi taught Erica that being a werewolf didn’t have to mean losing your humanity, it was about control, understanding, and choice.

Under Levi’s care, Erica grew into a more confident, capable individual. Despite the harshness of her upbringing, Levi’s influence gave her an unwavering belief in strength through unity, one that transcended the old pack boundaries that often divided werewolves. As she got older Levi realized that living secluded really wouldn't be good for her he could tell she needed more then just what he could provide like kids her age she could make friends with instead of being isolated So he decided to join New Tide, a pack founded on ideals that resonated with his own. The pack accepted all, regardless of their bloodlines or past, and it turned out be the perfect fit for them.​

 

[cuzn]

• .
• .
• .
• .

• BUNNY

  full name

  Bethany Brown Jr.
  
  

  nickname

  Bunny
  
  

  gender

  Female
  
  

  age

  23 Years
  
  

  d.o.b.

  September 17th
  
  

  sexuality

  Questioning

  VISAGE

  height

  5'8"
  
  

  weight

  112lbs
  
  

  build

  Scrawny, boyish, and freckled all over
  
  

  hair

  Long, curly black hair that is usually let loose in a messy afro. Nobody had ever taught her how to care for it properly.
  
  

  eyes

  Dark brown, appears amber when obscured by ruby-lensed sunglasses.
  
  

  mods

  Multiple ear piercings and a naval stud; faded evidence where old gang tattoos had been lasered away; a growing collection of grotesque, rustic tattoos of wild American animals and their skeletons, carcasses decomposing in flowerbeds, and a single quote from Richard Adams' Watership Down, which begins aptly—"Frith lies in the evening sky. The clouds are red about him."
  
  

  scars

  Covered by tattoos, they are her only taboo.
  
  

  lycanthropy

  A black-furred wolf with hints of gray shading her undercoat, and subtle brown flecks that cause her fur to rust amber at the edges in direct sunlight. Her eyes are a pale yellow and her ears are slightly larger than average. As she ages, her brown and gray spotting will become more prominent.
  
  

  style

  Boyish, athletic, and maneuverable, usually in skintight sleeveless crop-tops; never in dresses, nor skirts, nor heels, nor makeup; always in black.
• steadfast

  devoted

  disciplined

  spiritual

  sentimental

  perceptive

  violent

  regretful

  demoralized

  hateful

  untrusting

  distant

  PERSONA

  Though Bunny may seem sure-footed and unwavering, in both her actions and words, it doesn't take long for an observant onlooker to see that, socially, she's about as clumsy as they get. By a majority of those she meets, she is defined by the worst of her emotions—her violence, her hatred, her tendency to scowl even when in a good mood—and all too often she finds herself written off as a lost cause by those around her.
  
  In truth, bloodshed is the creed in which she'd been trained ever since she was a child. She doesn't know how to interact with people outside of making herself their enemy, and while she'd never admit it, the idea of friendship, of romance, intimidates her. Still, she isn't so foolish as to shut herself off from everyone around her. Underneath her raging emotions, Bunny is disciplined and resolute; she would rather become an honorable person, who sits through the discomfort of stumbling through conversations, who hurts and is hurt by others on complete accident, rather than to give up on the world around her and become a misanthrope.
  
  After a litany of near-death experiences, and after experiencing what she sees as a "reincarnation" into her existence as a lycanthrope, Bunny has suddenly become acutely interested in topics of philosophy, of human nature, and especially of the paradox of "kill or be killed" that every wild animal will one day face. There is nothing more valuable to her than the lives of animals.

  
  

  MISC

  Pertaining to her lycanthropy: Bunny is more wolf than human by her own doctrine. She rarely ever travels into Brimstone, and even at the campground of her own pack, she abstains from a seemingly random selection of normalcies. She avoids taking food procured by others, and thus is rarely ever seen taking from the fridge; the idea of spending an entire day inside makes her intensely uncomfortable; she despises cigarettes, drugs, and alcohol. To those who spend most of their time within or around human society, Bunny is very rarely seen, but if one ventures into the forests and gulleys of the New Tide's wilderness territory, they will encounter evidence of her passing by wherever they look.
  
  Rather than "wasting her time pretending to be human" as she puts it, Bunny oversees the comings and goings of the wildlife. She knows the locations of active foxholes and coyote dens, she knows when kitting season begins for cougars and when the year's ungulates are born, she can track a carcass from multiple kilometers away in the rain, but she shies when ordering a coffee at the local Starbucks. While it's true that she had once been human herself, her time with the homo sapiens had left a sour taste in her mouth, and having spent years outcasted from it all, her social etiquette is rusted three-times-over.
  
  If someone were to ask her, after returning to the campsite, how her day had gone, Bunny is most likely to mention something that relates in some way to nature. Happiness comes from watching a bison herd plow through snow, or noticing that the robin chicks nesting in the fir tree by the stream are just about old enough to take flight. With so much of her time spent dedicated to the Earth, Bunny has nurtured an appreciation of the cycle of life, and with this appreciation for the honorable death of a rabbit, who would go on to feed a cat, so too has a hatred of humanity's senseless and meaningless acts of cruelty taken root.
  
  Even when in her human-esque form, her body language echoes that of a wolf. She always carries the scent of a dog, strong enough for humans to take notice.
  
  Also, she loves to collect bones.

  
  
• BACKGROUND

  
  

  Bunny was a foster child.
  
  Bethany Brown was newly eighteen when she gave to her first daughter, who she named after herself—Bethany Brown Jr.—and who she only got to hold once before the newborn Bunny was rushed into the NICU for immediate treatment of neonatal abstinence syndrome. Born addicted to heroin from her mother's use, the lasting effects of having spent the first few days of her life in critical withdrawal have left Bunny with a propensity for seizures, though she's since forgotten her exact diagnosis and hasn't bothered retesting herself for what she assumes is epilepsy.
  
  With such severe health issues, even when Bunny was in foster homes in her infancy, her time was more often spent in the hospital than in her foster home. By the time her constant medical care could loosen up, Bunny was already thirteen and severely affected mentally by the course of her life. She was an ill-behaved child, an angry misfit who was passed around from one family to the next with a growing list of damages to her name. Stolen money and broken furniture intensified to fights in school, broken bones, bruised knuckles, and by the time she entered high school, the only students who would put up with her were those that were just as inhospitable as she was.
  
  When she was sixteen, she was running with the Crips. That same year, she was expelled from her fourth high school for jumping a freshman in the hallway and beating him to unconsciousness. No matter who asked—her foster parents, the principal, the police—she refused to explain why she'd done this, and after a tricky legal process, her foster family was ordered to pay damages in lieu of criminal charges. By seventeen, she'd been given up by that foster family, and was eventually passed to a short-term foster home in Manhattan. Her last few months of high school were spent in similar amounts of trouble, but it hardly mattered. She graduated despite having failed every class (apparently, the school district just didn't want to deal with her bullshit anymore, and this is more common than most would think), and the day that she turned eighteen, she aged out of the foster care system and her foster parents kicked her out.
  
  A brief stint of homelessness was lifted by the arrival of a new boyfriend. A Crip, a blonde, a tattoo artist; they met in March, started dating two weeks later, and two days after that, Bunny moved in with him. Anyone with common sense would have raised an eyebrow at this, but for a girl whose entire life had been a single story of rejection, the first person to ever say that they wanted her would be met with instant submission. Needless to say, their relationship burned bright and burned fast, characterized by that age-old game where violence and romance were one in the same. Nine months in, following a blow-up argument, Bunny's boyfriend revealed his identity as a pure-blooded lycanthrope, and left her with a deep bite stretching from her right shoulder to her chest. Apparently, he'd assumed that transforming her into a creature wholly undesirable by any human lover would mean that she was stuck with him.
  
  The next morning, Bunny disappeared, leaving everything except for some cash and the clothes on her back behind.
  
  Three years later, Bunny turned up again, a feral wolf wandering the territories of the Cascade Mountains. Yellowstone had been too crowded for her taste—too many tourists, too many hunters, too many wolves and too many humans. It wasn't long before she was found by the New Tidelings, by werewolves—the first werewolves she'd met since leaving New York—and Bunny took the opportunity to join them instantly. Not necessarily for the companionship, but because, truth be told, she was tired of sleeping on the grass, and she'd been chased away by one too many grizzlies that month. A bed would be nice, a room even nicer, and if it came in a package deal with her new housemates, she would learn how to deal with it.
  
  Somehow.

  
  
• RELATIONSHIPS

  • .
  • .

  • NAME HERE

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    NAME HERE

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    NAME HERE

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    NAME HERE

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  • NAME HERE

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    NAME HERE

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    NAME HERE

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    NAME HERE

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善有善报

coded by reveriee.