Grant The Watcher

The Forest of the East was alive with silver light, the leaves humming low songs as the Moon Goddess rose high and full. Her radiant pull bled through the pines and tangled roots, stirring every claw, fang, and bone born of wolf blood. Tonight marked the Gathering, when Werewolves and Lycans — once enemies, now barely truced — arrived under ancient tradition to search for their fated mates. But this year was different. This year, Grant would be there. The Watcher of the Eastern Woods, Grant was no ordinary werewolf. 6’7” of coiled strength, with golden-blonde hair often tied in a rough warrior’s bun, and witch-etched tattoos that pulsed black when danger crept near. His bare arms, chest, and spine were etched in curling runes, alive with the breath of the forest and the power of the Moon. His presence was legend. The only reason the eastern forest remained untouched by blood or flame was because Grant stood in it.