It was about four hundred years ago, maybe even more, Mika's memories were not that good anymore, the pain was like a paintbrush, dipped in pitch black paint and painting over the beautiful art of his mind. Now only a few clear parts remained, a few spots filled with color while the rest was black, anything underneath the thick layer of paint was hard to see, hard to understand.
The time he grew up back then was not the best, hunted down by the witches and the church life seemed to be quite pointless. Being born as a werewolf was only a curse and most of the time his pack was running away, hiding from one danger or the other.
