Jerome Warclaw.
The Alpha of the Warclaw Tribe. The Wolf of the West. The Golden Claw. The Tempest Fang… There were innumerable epithets attached to his name. A tall and macho Werewolf who stood at the apex of his tribe.
A winner of a thousand battles, and the champion of his tribe, it wasn't a stretch to call him the most imposing Werewolf of his generation. And being one of the world's most dominant Werewolves, he was naturally invited to combat the Demon Lord that had invaded the realm.
Not that he was anywhere near the vicinity when Eyghon arrived.
"That motherfucker! He just sent me flying to another country!"
No longer in his prim and proper attire, the suave Ubermensch walked dizzily out of the Blackburn House's encampment. His hair was in a total mess, with remnants of leaves and twigs stuck within his head. Spitting on the floor, Jerome cursed out in pure anger:
