Demyan Kharityn

[Demyan]

Name: Demyan Kharityn
Age: 43
Race: Human/Werewolf
Height: 6'4"


Physical Description: A comment that could be made about him is that he always looks tired. And if he doesn't look tired, he looks drunk. And that's usually because he is drunk. His hair is lanky and greasy, a cold iron grey that usually hangs in front of his eyes or down in his face. His beard is likewise long and scraggly, bits of food stuck in the black and grey peppered facial hair. There's no telling how long it's been since he's washed or bathed, and the game of 'identify the stains on his clothes' would make some people faint from trying to play. And if not, the stench doesn't help. People avoid him, not because they're scared of him, but because they're scared that if he rubs against them they will have to burn their clothing. And in a place where hot blooded shifters don't wear many clothes, that's not really an option.

Dark circles around his eyes would almost help them look better if they didn't merely make him look sick. His eyes, once a brilliant blue, are yellowing, filled with broken capillaries. His teeth, once white and shining, are now yellowed and his breath stinks like rotten meat. Which may be in parts due to the fact that he doesn't clean his teeth much, and bits of rotting meat get stuck in there and he just lets them rot away, not caring. His skin is sallow and sagging, pockmarked with scars from flea and lice bites that he has scratched to the point of bleeding. His body is almost cadaverous, skin stretched so tightly across his bones that if seems like if he were to fracture a rib, the skin would sink down into the crack. His lips are cracked and bleeding most of the time, but he just ignores it. He ignores everything.

His muscles are wasted, and the man altogether is just a shadow of his former strength. He walks with a hunch, his feet cold and unprotected by anything except for callouses. His fingernails are always lined with black dirt and dried blood, and if he sneezes into his hand he just wipes it down the leg of his pants. His clothes are torn and full of holes anyways, so that doesn't matter much to him. Demyan looks like he's homeless and clanless, but he's trapped in a city he can't leave because of the bloodoath and all that it entails. And since his former clan leader has forbidden him to leave, he's stuck in Zhaltev. The very place drives him slowly insane, and the only way he escapes from it is with the bottles of alcohol that are constantly at his side.

His other form doesn't look like a wolf. When he changes, he looks more like a starved dog than a noble wolf. His fur, once black like the humans hair, has started to go gray and thinning, almost giving him a mangy look. Demyan is more likely to wander the city in his animal form than human, tongue licking over a broken right canine as he searches for food to feed his wasted body. His paws and joints look too big for him, his rib cage very pronounced, his vertebrae visible even through his fur and the bones of his hips prominent. The wolfs head hangs in obvious fatigue, the slow starvation of it's human host body and it's increasing weakness because of it wearing the beast side of him down. Some of the more 'caring' Zhaltevites have thought about trying to put him down, if not for the sake of the wolf, but there's still enough fire in his eyes and snarl in his breath that he makes all that come back away from him.

Possessions:

Flask: Demyan's trusty flask. A true companion, his best friend as he likes to call it. The ceramic bottle is corked, and the cork shows bite marks where he pulls it straight out to start drinking, and drinking hard. He keeps a drink called gorzałka in his flask, the clear liquid harsh smelling, throat burning, and able to get the hard drinking shifter roaring drunk still. He gets it from a 'friend' of sorts, an old trader that remembers Demyan in his younger days and knows his story. He feels sorry for the wolf, and though Demyan hates the pity in his eyes, he still takes the free drinks. The pity just helps him drink harder.

To make sure he doesn't lose it, the flask is secured by a metal ring around the neck, which has a length of rope tied in a loop. Demyan merely puts the loop over his head, and then he doesn't have to worry about losing it. It's also quite convenient for when he doesn't want to move, and can just have the bottle sitting on his chest and pouring liquor down into his mouth. It's messy, but it helps when he can no longer feel or lift his arms.

Falcon feather: His most prized possession. Hiding inside his clothing, on a necklace of woven hair, black and red in equal measure making the braids. He would never remove it, never show it to anyone. It's his, and his alone. Not for anyones eyes, or fingers to touch, and any that fell upon it with either would have to die as far as he is concerned. He only takes it out in secret, in his best hiding places, where he's as sure as he can be that no one is watching him. The feather is his treasure, but it's also his torment. Red hair from her head, mixed with the black from his, a feather from her wings, all to remember that he was hers and she was his, but all it reminds him of now is screaming. Soft words, love words, screams of pain, pleas for mercy, and the burning desire to kill the ones who had done it. To kill the ones who kept him alive, who didn't let him join her and his children.

The mercy he had been shown was reflected in the falcon feather, and it was the cruelest knife of all. It left deeper scars on him that any claw, fang, or blade that any shifter had ever possessed. But he couldn't get rid of it, the very idea of getting rid of it pained him so that it made him drink large amounts just to forget that the thought had crossed his mind. It's his pain, it's the one thing that brings back his most horrible memories from the end of his old life, but it's the only thing he has left. And he's grown used to the pain by now.

The Pouch: Demyan returns to the same place every night to sleep. It's a blackened husk of a building, owned by his former clan now. But it used to be a home to someone much more important. And much like his falcon feather, it holds something important for him. Something so important, he doesn't risk taking it out of the house. If it were ever lost to him, he would lost the last vestiges of whatever humanity he had, and destroy whoever he came across until he found it again. When you pull up the floorboards under his sleeping place, you find a pouch. It doesn't look important, it's just a simple brown leather pouch. But it's what is inside that is important.

A doll for a girl, and a little toy soldier for a boy. Simple toys. So easy to make. Things little young children played with, a child no older than two or three. A doll to help the girl sleep, a toy soldier to protect the boy from his nightmares. But the toy soldier hadn't been enough. Nothing had been. Demyan had found them, next to empty cribs, shattered in the haste to strip the children from them. The only things he had left. The only things that gave him memories anymore. A doll to help him sleep, a toy soldier to protect him from his nightmares.

Tattered blankets and clothing: Demyan has a few tattered blankets and he has some clothing, but it's just as tattered and full of holes as the blankets. It covers the bits that some would ask for to be covered for modesty's sake, though most shifters don't even ask, but as clothing it doesn't have much use. Other than for him to clean his hands on, or to wipe vomit or blood from his mouth. Some of the other less fortunate joke that if you took his clothing off of him, that it would be able to stand and walk on it's own, so much is on it. He ignores the cold, so the holes don't matter to him. When it rains, he gets wet, and that's good enough of a cleaning for his clothing.

His blankets are tattered and worn in many places, crawling with what fleas and lice can survive the cold. In a city full of warm and hairy bodies that can be quite close together, the parasites have no choice but to thrive. He has long since learned to ignore them, viewing them as nothing more than an itch now and then. Kill one and ten remain. Kill ten, and a hundred remain. So just let them live and feed. It's about all he is good for, is the line of reasoning he usually follows.

Powers or Strengths:

Kindess (to certain people): If there is one good thing about Demyan in his current life, it's how nice he is to children. Any race, any breed of shifter, he is unfailing in his kindness to them. Demyan could be starving for days, and find a crust of bread and know it was his only possibility for a meal for several days again, and he would still give to a child that he thought was hungry before he took a bite of it himself. His 'kindness' extends to protecting children, if he saw someone hurting them, or attempting to, he would fight them. Or try to. With as weak as he is, most shifters in Zhaltev could throw him off of them and across an alley quite easily. But he would come back, again and again, until the children he was trying to help had a chance to escape. But it's never enough. He could save every child in Zhaltev from some horrible fate or death, and it still would not be enough for Demyan. He still wouldn't be able to save the two that he had needed to save the most. No matter how many children got to eat that night, or got away from some unscrupulous individual, he can still hear the screaming cries of two of them that never had a chance to live.

Berserk: Rage and depression are the only emotions that his husk of a form hold anymore. He channels all of it into increasingly rare bursts of strength, able to fight with the kind of rage and strength one would expect from a rabid wolf. It doesn't last for long, and he's not a technical fighter when it overtakes him. He's prone to swinging wildly, biting, clawing with his ragged fingernails, doing whatever it takes to inflict pain on whoever he's fighting. But it burns him up too quickly, like throwing oil on a thin piece of dry wood before lighting it on fire. When it's over, he's visibly weakened, and he almost always changes with a great need to hunt for red meat, to taste blood. Some of the characteristics of this bloodrage are: his body heat goes up, making him fairly steam in the cold air of Zhaltev, his pupils dilate, he starts to froth at the mouth, and he is able to ignore minor wounds.

Thievery: When he's just the right amount of drunk, not enough to stumble, but just enough that he doesn't shake, Demyan has discovered he is at least a competent thief. With no shoes to make a sound, and a shadow thin body to slip through cracks, it's how he feeds himself. Sneaking into shops and meat hutches to steal the catch and hunts of others. He thinks of himself as the wily old wolf that's smart enough to know that if you can raid the farmers chicken coop, you raid the farmers chickens and avoid his traps around his sheep. In reality, most of the people he steals from are people he knew in his old life, mainly because it's the only places he can remember. They feel sorry for the animal he has become, and the shop owners leave the food in easy to steal from places in case he will 'break in' through their purposely unlocked windows to attempt to feed himself. He won't accept the charity of food from them, but they can at least make him think he's getting it on his own.

Sadly, this has lead to some overconfidence for Demyan, who now thinks he's a master thief. He breaks into homes, causing a ruckus, with lots of noise, and then has to escape almost as soon as he's in, homeowners charging from their rooms in mid-shift, catching only a glimpse of a naked food and tattered pant leg or of a flat tail as it goes out a window. But he keeps trying, and keeps either failing or taking 'charity' from his old friends. Why should he care if someone kills him for it? Death is nothing to the man that lives in Hell.



Weaknesses and Flaws:

Allergies: Demyan is allergic to felines. They won't kill him, but his allergy does make him uncomfortable to an extreme degree. It starts with watery eyes, followed by sneezing fits. Then he starts to cough, his throat feeling itchy. The more he drinks, be it water or alcohol, the itchier it feels. Like he has a giant ball of hair stuck in his throat. He has to get away from the area immediately. If a feline shifter is responsible, and tries to follow Demyan at the expense of continuing the 'joke', he'll become very irate. Not that one can do anything about it when their eyes have watered to the point of crying and they feel like they should check every sneeze for bits of brain. But it still aggravates him to no end. Especially when he shifts, and his sensitive nose picks up fur in a part of the city he is far from, and he still ends of sneezing, which is.... a tad bit unpleasant for a wolf.

Shakes: Demyan shakes. A lot. It could be from the cold, it could be from the lack of alcohol at any given time. He doesn't know, and he doesn't care. Sometimes though, it gets to the point of being so bad that he can't do much of anything, and he has to grab his flask cork with his teeth, working it out before using his mouth to lift it up and get a drink. With enough alcohol, the shakes stop. Everything stops eventually, and he's fine with the measures he has to take to do that. Sober, he is weak. He shakes. He couldn't hold a quill or a knife now if he truly tried when sober. But drunk, the shakes go away. His hands feel sure. His body feels some kind of power again. So he drinks just as much to get rid of them as to get drunk now.

When he doesn't, when some strange desire to be a man again tells him not to reach for the bottle, his condition deteriorates quickly. He becomes unable to do the simplest tasks, like uncorking a flask. Or standing straight. His hands start first, and then the shakes travel up his arms, to his body, he starts to cough and his mouth becomes dry, and eventually it moves to his legs. His knees start to knock together, and he finds himself unable to stand. He's reduced to a shaking wreck, looking like the last leaf of fall hanging onto a tree branch while the wind blows, until he starts to get some alcohol into his system.

Alcoholism: To say that Demyan is a drinker is not only the understatement of the century, it's the understatement of all of recorded history. He bums money, steals money, does degrading things for money, and then goes and buys alcohol. He gets it wherever he can, whatever kind he can, as long as it's enough to get him drunk. Enough to stop the memories. It's no longer just an escape for him, he physically needs it. Alcohol is more important to him than food, more important than warmth, more important than the blood in his very viens. He will do anything for it if he's out of it. He can't take the pain of the memories, which hurts him more than the withdrawal from his relief.

Being drunk does affect his wolf form to some degree. The animal has enough good sense to not try anything stupid, and tries to stay away from the foul smelling things that the human inside of it screams and rails for. In the drunken state, it is easier for the wolf to take over and remain in control, and it's easier for it to attempt to find food for them to eat. While Demyan is concerned with destroying himself and dying, the wolf wants to live. The wolf doesn't understand these memories of sadness and pain. Mates die. Pups die. What is the purpose of letting yourself die? You have to move on. So it burns through the alcohol in their shared blood streams, and looks for meat for them. At this point in time, the wolf is keeping their shared vessel alive more than Demyan is.


Nightmares: Zhaltev is no stranger to pained screams and tortured howls. So the sounds go unnoticed in the dark twists and turns of city alleys, but he makes them. When he's torn from the dreams, hot blood still on his face, the screams of his children cut short, a pool of blood from his falcon already cooling on the floor. The wolves coming for him, to add his blood. To send him home. And then his sister taking that from him. Why? Why had she done that to him? She had always loved him so, did his falling in love hurt her that much that she had taken the end he wanted from him? And then made him stay? When the memories climbed through, suffocated and choked him, and then followed him into his drunken sleep and made him relieve those moments all over again, he wished for death. But Demyan is too much of a coward to take his own hand, fearing what lays on the otherside. Love for the man he no longer is? Pain and recrimination for what he had done, or not done? Or nothing at all?

Everynight the nightmares plague him. No matter how drunk he gets, he tosses and turns and suffers. He relieves that moment, and sometimes he dies too, his throat ripped out while his sister curses him for what he had done. Sometimes he goes to hell, and he burns as demons jabber and stab him with their pokers and blades. Sometimes, he goes somewhere else in them, and he thinks the dream is going to be good. He would see a strong son, a beautiful daughter, so alike. His mate, so beautiful, her eyes so full of love for him and for their children. And then he would watch as their skin sloughed off, their eyes went dead, their blood splattered over him and scrabbling, cold, dead bones would reach for him, digging into his skin and trying to drag him to join them, to punish him for not saving them from the end his family had created. He would wake on those nights, his fingernails digging great chunks of meat and skin from his body, and the only way to find solace was to scream until his throat was ragged and sore, he could taste blood, just scream and cry his rage and pain and sorrow to an unforgiving city and a cold sky.

Even as a child, this was a problem for Demyan. He's always had nightmares, ones that tore him from sleep, screaming and crying. But his father instilled in him that this was a weakness. And his father was one of the twenty, the leaders closest pack mates. Weakness could not be tolerated, not from him, not from his children. His children would eventually rise, just as he did, and they would not be known as weakness from the start. So his father made him a drink a type of 'medicine' that made him sleep deeply, and kept him from screaming no matter how badly the nightmares affected him. At one point in his life, he had a reprieve from them, and even if he had them, he was finally able to go back to sleep because of the help he had upon waking. But now, he doesn't have any medicine, doesn't have any help. And the nightmares are much worse.

Forgetfulness: Even before his problems and his exile, Demyan was the forgetful type. He would have a quill behind his ear, ready to write something down, and be scattering things across his desk looking for the quill he had been using just the moment before. Now, it's more along the lines of he will be wearing his flask around his neck, and completely forget it was there, or stare off into space, thinking, and then when he comes back to the present, search for the bread crust that he has lost that is in his hand. If Demyan gets something, he generally forgets it somewhere. That's why everything important has some kind of string or other way of attaching itself to his body, so it's at least impossible to lose, even if he does forget he has it on.

He and his cousins used to joke that he would lose his own head, if it wasn't attached to his shoulders. He also has a horrible head for dates, the only one he was able to remember was his little sisters birthday. Even now, to this day he remembers exactly when her birthday is, a sort of feeling that he has, even if he doesn't know what date it is on a calendar. Something in his guts tells him that it's her birthday. He celebrates by getting drunk and beating the blood out of whoever is unfortunate enough to be around when he snaps.


History:

While one wouldn't say that Demyan was born into happiness, he was at least born into safety and a large family. Kharityn is full of brothers and sisters, uncles, aunts, and cousins upon cousins. They were Kharityn, the strictest of the Clans as far as who they would bring in, and no inferior creature would disease their ranks like those of the Dveshiniy. And they would certainly never speak of Jorvyk, which Demyan's father would always refer to as the 'zoo'. But that didn't matter to Demyan. He was born to Kharityn. They were strong, because they did not tolerate weakness. His father tolerated no weakness from his son, not even when playing with his cousins. Pack hierarchies were strong even with the children who had yet to shift, and his father wanted him to establish himself early. But Demyan didn't want to, he wanted to play. He wanted to run, and to wrestle, and to fall asleep in his mothers lap.

And then his sister was born. He didn't truly understand, what five year old child would? But his mother was fine when it was all over, even though she had screamed and swore. And now, he apparently had a sister. He had looked at the small child, wrinkling his nose at her. She didn't look like much. Like a half cooked loaf of bread actually. But his father had looked him in the eye, and told him he had a very special job. To always protect his younger sister, and to make sure no one would ever harm her. Demyan had swelled his chest up and stood up as straight as he could and told his father he would. He would do whatever it took to be a good big brother to little Nadejda. Even though he couldn't pronounce her name correctly, and just called her Nadi. And that was how it went. He was inseparable from her for those first few years, always making sure she was okay. When his father would ask him how the day went before sending his children to bed, the little boy would muster up a serious look and salute, and tell his father that he had protected his little sister like he was supposed to.

Demyan was a late shifter, causing worry in his parents and other close confidants of his father. While many children shifted around the age of five or six for the first time, Demyan was seven before he found his other form. It caused a bit of a stir in the main hall, because a younger child came bolting from the back room, followed closely by a larger wolf pup, snarling and snapping his teeth at the boys legs, hot on his feet. The coal black puppy was unknown to many of them, and they spent some time trying to figure out who it was as they restrained the snarling little creature. When he finally shifted back, his father was relieved that his son had finally found his change, even if he hid it behind a stony mask for Demyan making such a spectacle. Even when it was found out that the boy was hitting Nadejda and that was why Demyan had attacked him, he was still punished for making a fool of his father.

Demyan grew from a cute and wonderful child into a gangly youth. Long limbed, hands and feet always getting in each others way and too big, and never talking because his voice was always cracking, going from the deep bass that he would carry for the rest of his life to the high tenor that was the voice of a child or vice versa. Even his wolf form was like him when he shifted, all knobbly legs and bones and a big head that his body had not grown into yet. The boy hated it. His cousins made fun of him for it, the girls laughed at him, and the only one who still treated him the same was little Nadi. She would put her hands up and make grabbing motions, and Demyan would pick the little girl up and put her on his shoulders, and take her to the highest points of the hall, so she could feel taller than the entire city. Demyan only wanted his little sister to smile and laugh. As he grew older, he started to play more with boys his own age, and then his fourteenth birthday came. And as tradition dictated, he swore his bloodoath to his clan. Something changed in him after that.

He didn't smile as much, and he started playing with an older cousin, a mean, brutish boy named Boris. Older by several years, Boris wasn't respected in his own group with those of his age, so instead moved down to others younger than himself. And he got what he wished for, the younglings respect. He was older. He was smarter. He knew things. And what did he know? That Kharityn was better. That they deserved more than the others. The others had more people, more bodies, but worth could they be? What was a birth to a wolf? Even the other wolves of the clans were nothing. Because they weren't a true pack. They didn't share the same blood, only the oaths. Kharityn was more than a clan. It was just a large pack. Just a big family. And treating himself as an Alpha, Boris took his cousins out into the streets as his pack, and they caused trouble in any way they could. Messing with shopkeepers, picking on younger children. They didn't realize it wasn't their strength that kept them safe, but the fact that they hadn't truly broken any laws yet. Even as brash as they were, they weren't ready to cross any true lines yet. Boris wasn't as smart as some, but he was smart enough to know that at least.

One day, they decided to go out in force, to survey the city they felt were rightfully theirs. Wandering through the streets and drinking, things soon started to get ugly. The growled and snapped at each other, jockeying for place as they walked down the street. Boris knew that they needed to spend energy. Need to do something... fun. And as they rounded the corner, and saw a pretty little redhead setting up her market stall, he knew that they had at least found something to break. She wasn't their clan. She didn't have the markings of theirs, or of any. He laughed and urged the others forward, ready to break up her stall and run. Just a little fun. But Demyan held back.

Demyan's Memory:

Everyone surged around him, his oldest cousin leading the pack. And that's what they were, a wolf pack, ready to strike at their prey. And usually he was fine with that. Because what were people who weren't with Kharityn but prey to them? Even the other wolves. They might fancy themselves predators, but at the end of the day all they were was a bunch of sheep in wolves clothing. But this merchant... he kept staring at her hair for some reason. He felt himself almost reluctantly drawn forward, swept up into the mentality of the pack, and they stormed over her merchants stall, destroying and breaking everything. She tried to push one of them back, and he threw her to the ground and laughed. Demyan shook his head, this felt wrong somehow. But it had never felt wrong to him before. Then, her possessions broken to their satisfaction, they ran for the alleys and streets to get away. But it plagued him for some reason.

They never ran in a group, they always parted ways after doing something like that. Demyan soon found himself alone, staring inward as his feet and nose led him to wherever they were taking him. He finally looked up, and he was back at her stall. Watching her. She was crying, but she wasn't making noise. Just silent tears as she tried to piece her stall and items back together. He felt horrible. But why? She was nothing. She wasn't Kharityn, so that meant she was literally nothing, and never would be. But still, he felt the feeling deep in his chest that he had hurt someone. What would he do if someone had done this to his little sister because she wasn't a certain clan? Or a certain shifter? His hands clenched into fists as he thought about what he would do the person. But this person wasn't his little sister. She was nothing. Just another dreg of Zhaltev.

Demyan didn't speak to her. He left. He continued his ways, but not as much. He started to see problems with the way his cousins did these things. And besides, at this point, he was growing older. His father had made it a point to inform his son that a wolf did not continue to run with dogs. And that's all Boris and the others that never left his little group were. Dogs. So Demyan distanced himself, working closely with his father. Learned the business of the clan, where to get items from merchants, which herding tribes to speak to to get the best caribou and mammoth drives. Demyan in many ways was a model son. He was good to his mother, protective of his sister, and was devout to his father's word and teachings. But he continually dreamed about red hair. It replaced his nightmares, replaced the need for potions. He just dreamed of red hair, running it through his fingers, burying his nose in it. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. He went to where he thought the stall had been. What if she wasn't even there anymore? It didn't matter. He was going to at least satisfy his desire to attempt to see her again. Maybe it would be better for him if she wasn't there.

But his wish wasn't granted. She was still there, hawking her wares. He watched her from up the street, watching her sell her things. Watched her smile at her customers. He hadn't seen her smile that day. Just look angry and then when they had been running away, broken as she looked at the mess they had made. It had been years since that day, and still Demyan felt a pang that it wasn't right what he had done to her. He shook his head at the thought. His father had told him that a Kharityn didn't feel badly for what they did. They were a cut above. A better breed of wolves. They didn't feel sorry. They didn't feel remorse for what they did to someone who wasn't Kharityn. But what was he? He was Kharityn, he was a member of the clan, he did what he had to. He had always done what he had to do. His father merely had to ask, Kasimir merely to mention it in passing around him, and he would do it. He gave his everything to his family, to his clan. But what did that leave for Demyan? Who was he? Just Nikolai's son? Another haughty bruiser for Kasimir? He restrained a snarl as he watched her from the shadows of the alleyway. Why did it matter? He was a Kharityn, the son of the twelfth. He clenched his hands as the urge to snarl rose. These thoughts were weaknesses. This want to deviate, want to talk to someone who was not a wolf, and he knew she was not because the wind was blowing from behind her, he could see it making her hair sway and he couldn't smell wolf scent on her but something else, was not something a Kharityn did.

Demyan left again. He tried to drive the red headed woman from his mind, and threw himself into his work for Kharityn. He was a model son, a model clan member, doing everything that Nikolai and sometimes Kasimir asked him to do. Irina, who worried about her son like many mothers do, became concerned that he was doing too much. If he wasn't working or doing his duties, he was sleeping. If he wasn't sleeping, he was sitting in the library, reading about trade agreements or treaties between Zhaltevites and local tribes. He threw himself so completely into it that even his father became impressed. And then told his son that he needed to take a day off. To live his life, enjoy the city a bit. Demyan tried to argue with his father, but there simply was no work left for him to do. He had done everything that could be entrusted to him, and now he was being told to take a break. Leave the city and go hunting if he had to. His father had good reason to ask him to do this. Every once in a while, you just needed to get out of the city, needed to get some fresh air. Needed to leave behind the buildings and get fresh blood on your teeth. So Demyan went out, but he never left the city. His feet led him once again to a little market stall in the inner city, with a red headed woman behind the counter.

This time, Demyan finally spoke to her. He counted himself as lucky that she didn't remember him from five years ago. She was nice to him, and she smiled easily. He felt his heart break a bit when she smiled and he remembered what he had done. She was nice to him the entire time he talked to her, and before long he noticed that the shadows were growing long and he excused himself to leave. But he promised her he would come back to talk to her tomorrow. And she smiled again and told him she would like that. That night, Demyan did something he had never before done. Lied to his father, telling him that he had went outside the city and hunted like he was told. Nikolai believed him, because after all, his son never lied. Why would he lie about something so simple now? That night, Demyan had the first good nights sleep in years, his nightmares not waking him through his medicine.

Other the next few weeks, his family once again noticed a change in his behavior. Demyan laughed easily once again, was more willing to spend time with his little sister, ate lunch with his mother. He still did the same amount of work, still did his duties to the house, but he just seemed happier. He also disappeared for two or three hours everyday, but no one cared much. He was happy, he was hard working, and he was still a good son for his father. So why would they watch where he went to? Demyan had never deviated from the clan thought, and so there was no reason to doubt his words or to check up on him. But if they had, they would have found him with the red headed merchant Zoya, talking and laughing at her booth with her as she sold her items. Eventually, their relationship progressed from friendship to something more. Even though Demyan knew that it was against the rules, against his families laws, but he didn't care. Zoya cared for him. When he fell asleep in her arms, he slept through the night without his nightmares, and he didn't even need his medicine to do so. Demyan knew that they were flirting with death. He knew that if anyone in his family found out, that they would be killed. But he didn't care.

Demyan spent more and more time with Zoya, leaving the main halls of Kharityn for longer times to stay with her. Kasimir and Nikolai started to have people watch him. Boris tracked him easily enough, and reported Demyan's little 'lover' to Nikolai and the clan leader. Because of Nikolai's service, and the fact that Demyan had already accomplished so much for them, they agreed to let it remain a secret as long as he didn't try to bring her to the family. But Kasimir promised Nikolai that if Demyan did try, he would die. And Nikolai agreed with that. So he tried to bury his son in work, but Demyan worked like a madman to get his the various jobs done so he could go spend time with Zoya. Soon enough, Nikolai gave up trying, and just accepted that his son had a falcon lover. As long as it stayed at just a lover, they could keep it under control.

But soon enough, Zoya told Demyan she was pregnant with his child. He was ecstatic, scared, nervous. All the emotions a new father would feel. But he had the added fear that if they were ever found out, they would all be killed. His family wouldn't tolerate 'half-breed' children. But Zoya calmed his fears. They had been together this long and hadn't been found out. They could keep their secret. They could survive. Her belly grew, and the date came closer. And then they finally came into the world, a little girl and a little boy. Nadija, for his little sister that he loved so much, and Andrei for a son that he knew would be a strong warrior one day. The children were beautiful in his eyes. In that moment, he didn't care that they might not shift into wolves. That the weren't truly Kharityn, at least not in his family's eyes. To him, they were Kharityn. They were his children. Nadija Demyevna Kharityna and Andrei Demyavitch Kharityn to anyone that thought to give them disrespect.

Two years of happiness. That's what Demyan and his small family had. Happiness away from the politics of Kharityn, away from the politics of Zhaltev, and it was good for him. He smiled often, even when by himself or working for his father, thinking of the family he was going to spend his time with. But his family was starting to get angry. The time he spent away, the fact that he had done this in the first place... but Nikolai did this one thing for his son by trying to keep Kasimir away, to keep him off the track of killing Demyan for his crimes. But then Demyan was given some news that completely changed the balance he had found between his clan and family. Zoya was pregnant again, and Nadija had shifted for the first time, and she was a wolf. Just like her father, her fur was black. An adorable little pup. Demyan knew that something had to be done. If she grew up, and someone smelled her scent and could her scent showed that she was a Kharityn wolfs pup, then they would be in as much trouble as any other way. He went to his sister first. She would know what to do, and she wouldn't judge him as much as his mother. His father would probably kill him on the spot.

But his sister wasn't the way to go. She raged against him, told him that he was an embarrassment to their family. That he should die before he had done what he did. She told him that his children were better off dead. He tried to speak to her about them. To tell her how his daughter looked as a pup. To tell her how his son would growl at him and grab at his nose with his tiny little hands. About how he had named his daughter Nadija because he wanted her to be a strong woman, just like her aunt. But she refused to listen. She hardened her heart to him, and it broke his. His little sister, that he had always protected, always listened to her dreams, always did what he could to help her. And she refused to even see the little girl that was named after her. Refused to listen to him about what it was like to feel a child that was his, a piece of himself, hold his fingers for the first time and open their eyes. She told him that she said these things because she loved him, and didn't want him hurt. But he didn't see it. All he could think was that she wouldn't let go of the hatred imprinted in them by their family, by the clans ways, and see his family with her own eyes. She didn't see him because of what he had done, not as Nadejda. She just saw him as a Kharityn saw an outsider.

He gave it three days. Zoya and the children were as hidden as he could make them. The only person he had told about where they lived was Nadejda. He didn't go see them so that his scent wouldn't lead them to her. He knew the punishment for breeding or marrying outside of the clan. Still he stood in front of them and announced that he was bringing his family into the clan or he was leaving the clan home and not returning. They could still call him a member of Kharityn, but he would not live in their hall without his wife and his children. To say it did not go over well was an understatement. He was piled on by men like Boris and others, and they beat him until he couldn't rise, and then held him up to watch what was coming. Trackers went out into the streets, following his old scents. There was so many in the pack that they could cover a good amount of space. And when they finally found his home, they knew it. His scent was old, but it was strong there. He had spent too much time in that home for it not to be strong. The wolves broke in the door, looking for his family. And they found them.

He could hear his daughter crying when they brought her into the main hall. Zoya didn't make a sound, but the sight of scratches and blood on her drove him mad, and he almost pulled away from the men holding him to get to her. They piled on him again, holding him down to the floor. His eyes ran around the room, and he finally found Nadejda. How could she have told them? How could she have done that? He fought again. How could Nadi have betrayed him?

Demyan's memories:

They told him to renounce Zoya first. Before he could even think to say no, she spat at Kasimir. His herat swelled at her bravery. "Coward!" She yelled, "Leave my husband and children alone!" With a nod from Kasimir Kharityn, the man holding her down snapped her neck. Demyan felt his entire body go numb. Her blue eyes, which had always looked on him with such love, were empty. Nothing there. She was gone. He howled in pain and anger, and Andrei tried to pat his mother, to see what was wrong with her, and the people holding him jerked his arm away and back. The two year olds arm snapped with a dry crack. Demyan roared again, almost breaking free. He was given another chance to renounce his children. He was too angry to even say anything, just roaring at Kasimir. Telling him he was going to kill him. He was going to kill everyone of them. Andrei's cries of pain were cut short. Demyan didn't see what they had done to him. But he knew that his son was dead. He strove and pushed with his legs, tearing forward as more men jumped to hold him down.

Kasimir looked at him, smirking at the enraged man on the ground. "You have one last chance. Maybe, if you renounce your daughter, she might have a chance to live. Maybe even find someone who is willing to take care of her. Or, she can die now." Demyan howled at him, trying to shift his form, trying to attack the man who had killed his son and his wife. Kasimir nodded once more, and Nadija, his beautiful little daughter, so inquisitive, so full of life, was gone. Demyan's rage went beyond anger into something else. He cracked through his form, shifting into his large wolf form. The black beast broke through the men holding him, fur bristling and foam dripping from his jaws. He ran forward, intent on killing the person that had killed his mates. His offspring. The wolf didn't understand family politics. It just felt the red hot anger of his other half, and smelled the cooling bodies of his pups and his mate. That was all the wolf needed. Before he reached the one he knew by scent as the leader, another wolf shoulder tackled him and they fought. The other wolf was older and grizzled, black fur marked by grey on his muzzle. Demyan and the wolf side both knew that it was Nikolai, but they still tried to get through him so that Kasimir could die. But the delay caused by Nikolai had been long enough. The men who had lost their grip had tackled on him again. Demyan and the wolf fought with them, teeth ripping and tearing into members of Kharityn to try and get loose. They held him down and Kasimir laughed.

Demyan didn't remember much after that point. He was too full of anger and rage and sadness. He let the wolf form go, and he lay on the floor as a man again, panting, his heart full of pain. All he could remember was Nadi stepping up and challenging Kasimir. He could hear the fighting, smell the blood. But his eyes were stuck on the bodies of his family. Zoya, his beautiful wife. Nadija his daughter. She would have been so beautiful. She would have been a wonderful wolf, strong and swift. Andrei. His warrior. His son. He had never had a chance to be anything. A warrior, a scholar, anything he could have wanted to be. Cut down as a child. The third child, that had never even had a chance to breathe fresh air. Never had a chance to feel their parents love. He heard Nadejda claim Kharityn as her own. But what did it matter? His family was dead. His children were dead. Kharityn was no longer his family. He would never see a single person in this clan as his family ever again. They were all dead to him. Nadejda came to him and he felt her hand caress his face. He shivered in revulsion from her touch, but he still heard her words. Banished from the home, but had to stay in the city. Why couldn't she kill him? Was she going to punish him by making him live in this city? But either way. Her punishment was her punishment. Nadejda had always been cold and ruthless when she wanted to be. He knew this was her way of punishing him somehow. They let him go, and he ran. He ran for the city, for his home.

The door was off it's hinges. There was blood on the floor, blood on a knife that was on the floor. Zoya's kitchen knife. She had tried to fight. He found the childrens toys in their room, their cribs smashed and broken. He crawled into the bedding that he and Zoya had once shared, holding one of her dresses to his face, trying to remember her smell, and he cried. He howled in pain, howled in rage, and he howled until he felt the emptiness in his chest lessen. But it wasn't working. He knew something that would help. That would heal him. He stumbled down the streets, looking for the first place that would offer him something to drink. He used all the trade and currency that he had to buy as much alcohol as they would sell him. Demyan got drunk. And then he kept drinking. The pain was still there, but he didn't have to feel it as much. He could ignore it while drinking. So he kept drinking. And then he tried to leave Zhaltev. The pain from disobeying his sisters orders left him panting and bleeding from the eyes and nose in the snow. He stumbled to his feet and took another drink, stumbling back into the city.

It's been five years since the events of that day. Demyan is protected by his birthname, and he's protected by the pity people feel for him. He hasn't seen or talked to Nadejda since the day she told him to leave. He doesn't remember much from his old life, nor does he care to. His former clanmates have attempted to talk to him, but he turns into a rabid man, attacking them until they leave him alone. If he smells Nadejda on the wind, he turns into his wolf form and runs as far away as the bounds of his oath will let him. He doesn't want to meet her, doesn't want to see her. He doesn't know how he'll stop himself from killing her. He's seen his father once since then, his father padding around the city, trying to find him in his wolf form. Demyan changed and waited for his father to come to him. Nikolai stopped, but Demyan would have attacked him, would have killed him if he came closer. That's how he views all of his former family members. People to be killed for taking his true family away from him. All the man looks for now is another drink. He hopes for the chance to go to sleep and not wake up. He doesn't care for anything anymore. Just another drink.

[Saruna]

Approved.