In a small village called Tonkilla, in the Tanou Empire. 35 years before the current events in Helgarde.
The village of Tonkilla nestled in the embrace of the forested hills, a bastion of peace and simplicity. It was a place where time seemed to flow at a different pace, untouched by the wars and strife that ravaged the lands beyond its borders.
Lupin was a young man then, his fur still mottled with the softness of youth. His eyes had not yet seen the horrors of the world, and his heart had not yet been hardened by loss and betrayal.
The sun painted a warm, dappled pattern on the streets, and the smell of baking bread wafted from open windows. It was a simple existence, one where the biggest worries were the season's harvest and the latest gossip.
On this seemingly normal day, the guard at the village's entrance squinted against the glare. A figure approached, limping and ragged. The guard's hand went to the hilt of his sword, his instincts sharpened by tales of bandits and other malevolent beings that roamed the countryside.
As the figure grew closer, the guard recognized the unmistakable gait of despair. It was a young man, barely into his twenties, with a wild look in his eyes and a desperation that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. His clothes were tattered, and his feet were bare, leaving bloody trails in the dusty road
The guard stepped forward, his hand still on his sword. "Halt! What brings you to Tonkilla?"
But before he could answer, he collapsed from exhaustion, his body giving out beneath the weight of his fear and pain. The guard's expression softened, and he stepped aside to allow the weary traveler to enter the village. As the gates closed behind them, a sense of unease began to pervade the air, a foreboding that even the innocent villagers could feel in their bones.
Lupin's house was a modest yet well-maintained abode at the center of the village. The scent of herbs and earth filled the room, a testament to his wife's green thumb and her penchant for traditional remedies. She had been the village healer for as long as anyone could remember, and her knowledge of the natural world was unrivaled.
The young man, barely conscious, was laid gently on a pallet by the fire. Lupin's wife, a woman named Mari, moved quickly to tend to his wounds, her deft hands cleaning the blood and grime from his body with a gentle efficiency that spoke of years of practice. Her eyes, filled with a motherly concern, searched his face, seeking the source of his distress.
"Rest now," she whispered, her voice a soothing balm to his fevered mind. "You are safe here."
It took a few days before he regained consciousness, the feverish nightmares of his journey finally giving way to the gentle warmth of reality. When he finally opened his eyes, the room was bathed in the soft, golden light of a setting sun. He tried to sit up, but a hand pressed gently on his chest, keeping him down.
"Easy, young one," Lupin's wife said, her voice as calming as a lullaby. "You've been through much. Your body needs rest."
The young man looked around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. The walls were lined with jars of herbs and dried plants, their scent a strange but comforting blend of earth and magic. The bed beneath him was soft and warm, a stark contrast to the cold, hard ground he'd become accustomed to.
"Where am I?" he croaked, his voice raw from disuse.
"You are in Tonkilla, my dear," she said with a gentle smile.
Lupin, who had been watching the scene unfold from the shadows, stepped into the room, his fur bristling with curiosity. "What's your name, human?" he asked, his deep voice carrying the weight of his newfound authority.
He looked up at him, his expression unreadable. For a moment, it seemed as if he was weighing his options, considering whether to lie or to reveal the truth. "Virgil," he said finally, the name rolling off his tongue like a rotten fruit.
Lupin's eyes narrowed, and a low growl rumbled in his chest. "Virgil," he repeated, tasting the name like a bitter pill. "What brings you to my village?"
The young man's gaze flicked from Lupin to his wife, and back again. "I'm... I'm an escaping slave," he said, his voice trembling with the weight of his words.
"I was sold to them by my own mother, she never took care of me, didn't even gave me a name. I was a burden to her... She once told me that she wanted to drown me as a child... so that I would no longer be a burden to her..."
"When the bandits came, she saw an opportunity to get rid of me... She had no money so she offered me to them..."
"I was 14 when this happened... They did bad things to me... I had to do things... I couldn't help but take the best chance to escape..."
He paused briefly before continuing. "I walked continuously for four days until I reached this village... You took me in and saved me, I thank you from the bottom of my heart."
Lupin's expression softened at the tale of hardship. He had seen his fair share of suffering in the world, but something about Virgil's story resonated deeply within him. "You are welcome here, Virgil," he said gruffly. "We do not judge in Tonkilla."
Over the following weeks, Virgil's strength grew, and with it, so too did his curiosity about the villagers' way of life. He watched as the Lycan men and women moved with grace and power, their eyes always sharp and their senses heightened. The Lycan culture was steeped in the natural world, a world where the line between the divine and the mortal was as thin as a spider's web.
One full moon evening, the villagers gathered in the town square, their faces upturned to the sky. The air was electric with anticipation, and the scent of roasting meats and sweet incense filled the air. It was the Festival of Selthar, the ancient moon goddess revered by the Lycan people. Virgil felt an inexplicable pull to the celebration, something deep within him resonating with the rhythmic chants and the soft strumming of lyres that filled the night.
The festival was a tapestry of light and shadow, the villagers' fur glowing silver under the moon's ethereal embrace. They danced in a circle around a massive bonfire, their movements fluid and graceful, a silent homage to the deity that watched over them. The flames leaped and danced in time with their steps, casting long shadows that stretched and contorted across the cobblestones. The full moon bathed everything in an otherworldly glow, making the ordinary seem mystical and the mystical seem ordinary.
Mari approached Virgil, her expression one of solemn joy. Her eyes, the color of the night sky, held a gentle wisdom that seemed to pierce through the veil of his pain. "You've been watching us, Virgil," she said, her voice a soft murmur that seemed to carry on the night breeze. "Do you wish to know more about our ways?"
He nodded, his curiosity piqued.
Mari led him to the edge of the festivities, her hand gentle on his arm. "This is the Festival of Selthar," she began, her voice a warm caress that seemed to soothe the ache in his soul.
"Selthar, the moon goddess, is the mother of our people," she explained. "Her light guides us through the darkest of nights, her power courses through our veins, granting us the strength to protect what is ours."
She paused briefly before continuing. "She is not only our mother, the astronomers, prophets and shapeshifters also claim her blessing and allow themselves to be guided."
Virgil felt a strange stirring within him, something akin to the first stirrings of a storm before the tempest breaks. He had always felt out of place in the human world, a creature of the shadows and whispers. Could it be that he had found his true kin here, among these beings of fur and fang?