ケロ…

it's a series now, I guess...

This is an interactive series where you adopt your own Box boy and make choices along the way of having him. There isn't much yet, but I hope it goes well :3

Chapters (?):

Part 1: Entering the Shelter

Part 2: getting to know more

Part 3: meeting

Part4: our way home

part5: first steps

part6: a little closer

part7: food

Mc: (mutters) so you're a psycho with mommy issues...

Max: I never had issues with my mom.

Mc: oh really?

Max: of course. I love...- loved her...

Mc: loved?

Max: um... She died... So...

Mc: ...

(Max seems genuinely upset to have remembered)

Mc: I see... You must miss her a lot...

Max: ...

Mc: I'm sorry for that...

Max: no. Don't be.

Mc: wait what?

Max: It's fine, really... I mean...

(...)

Max: I killed her, so you don't really have to.

Mc:...

"Max..." - aunt Helena starts, trying to call his attention. - "it's not nice to stare"

Max's eyes don't leave the camera lens as if he is hipnotized by it.

The doctor glances at him, for the first time acknowledging his presence. "Don't worry, Helena..." - he smirks - "I'm used to this." - he smiles warmly to max, but it seems to only scare him more.

The doctor presses a button on the device with a light click before declaring they are ready to start.

"This is the documentation of a lobotomy procedure for research purposes. Patient's name: Max; age: 16 years old; gender: male." - dr. Alviro reads from the file in his hand - " Max's procedure is only a few weeks away, so let's take a look on how his situation is to be improved."

The doctor taps Helena's shoulder - "Ms. Helena"

"Okay then..." - Helena takes a deep breath before continuing - "max, how are you feeling?"

Max stares into the camera lens with an uncomfortable expression. He glances to aunt Helena occasionally, but doesn't respond.

"Max..." - she tries again - "say how are you feeling."

A beat.

"You said you didn't sleep last night, is that right?"

Max shifts on his chair again - "uh... Uh-huh..."

"Okay." - Helena takes it as a yes - "and you don't feel really good, right?"

Max shakes his head without moving his gaze from the camera.

"Max, look down here, please" - aunt, tries to get Max's attention away from the lens, hopping he'll focus on the questions. She snaps her fingers, whistles...

However, max doesn't seem to be able to maintain focus away from the camera. He glances at Helena, but keeps staring into the lens as if he is seeing something deeply unsettling in it.

Helena gives up after a few tries.

"Okay, max, you said you were nervous earlier..." - Helena sighs - "does that happen often?"

"Y-yeah..."

"Can you tell me why?" - Helena is a bit shocked he answered faster this time.

"Uh... I- I'm... " - max never finishes the sentence.

"You see things sometimes, is that right?"

Max hiccups and shifts again...

"Max...You're seeing it right now...?" - Helena asks, concerned.

"Uhhh..."

Silence plages the room for a while. Max slowly begins scratching the right forearm in a way that is almost rythmical.

"max, hey! Stop that..." - Helena reaches to hold his wrist and press it on the table. - "Stop. Stop that." - she repeats the motion a few times trying to get him to understand, but it only frustrates the boy.

Max pushes her hand away and claws her wrist when she tries approaching again. Then, the doctor goes to intervein, which only serves to enrage Max. The boy slaps the camera, then the table and tries to make a run for it.

Helena holds him and the doctor pins him down on the table. Max screams and starts thrashing, kicking as hot tears stain his face.

Let the sunbathe a little, it's the evening sun

masterlist

The back door creaks open with a soft push, letting the warm hue of the evening sun spill into the hallway. The light paints long, golden strokes across the floor as you gesture to the bench outside.

You tell them to play outside and sunbathe.

Elliott steps out first, slowly, eyes darting around the small backyard. He treads cautiously on the wooden steps and reaches the bench, sitting stiffly on its edge. He keeps his hands on his knees, tense, and glances back at the house door like it's a lifeline. His leg begins to bounce.

Rashmi follows after him, tugging on his shirt to orient himself out, but instead of taking the bench, he lowers himself directly onto the patch of grass, wincing slightly but settling down carefully. He leans back, palms spread across the cool earth, face tilted toward the sun like a flower. His eyes don’t focus much, but he blinks slowly, soaking in the warmth, the breeze, the feel of crumbling leaves under his fingers. For the first time, he looks peaceful.

Elliott tries to sit still, but it doesn’t last. His shoulders twitch every time a bird chirps. He looks to the door. Then at you. Then at Rashmi. His lips part like he might say something, but nothing comes. After a long while, he stands up, paces, then sits again. His foot taps rapidly against the dirt.

After about thirty minutes, he finally walks up to where you're standing just inside the doorway.

“Um… Master?” he asks, eyes never quite meeting yours. “Can I go back inside now…?”

You give him a kind look, speaking gently. You tell him the sun is good for them and that they probably didn't have enough outdoor time at the shelter.

He blinks, fidgeting. “...There were no windows in our rooms,” he mutters. “Only when we were brought out for a few minutes.”

You nod. “Exactly. So I think it’s good to let your skin breathe and just… exist out here a while. Nothing’s going to happen. I promise.”

Elliott lowers his head and gives a small, rigid nod before turning back toward the bench. He doesn’t sit this time. He stands behind it, arms crossed over his chest, waiting.

The sun dips slowly lower, casting deeper shadows across the grass. Rashmi stays still on the ground, head tilted back and eyes fluttering half-closed. He shifts occasionally to feel the sun hit a different part of his face or to run his fingers through the grass like he’s committing the texture to memory.

Elliott remains on edge the entire time.

Eventually, an hour passes. You step outside and clap your hands gently. You tell them it's time to come in

Elliott doesn’t wait. The moment the words leave your mouth, he darts past you, slipping back inside without a word or glance at Rashmi. The brunette notices it, but Elliot left so quickly and he hadn't even gotten up.

Rashmi flinches at the sound. “...Already?” he asks quietly, not hiding the disappointment in his tone. He lingers in place for a second longer before slowly standing. He brushes grass from his clothes, his gaze unfocused as he tries to orient himself.

“Here,” you say, stepping toward him. “This way.”

He reaches for your voice. You gently guide him by the arm. He’s light and quiet, his bare feet brushing softly across the ground. He walks carefully, trusting your hand, though his expression is unreadable.

Once inside, he pauses in the hallway, taking a second to listen to the house.

You close the door behind him and speak softly, asking if he is alright.

He nods, just once.

Elliott is nowhere in sight.

AI is unreliable and bad for the environment.

There are plenty of free grammar checking programs available online that don't use that.

You don't even need to reply to this. Just a thought.

You're right! I heard people using something called grammarly, but I thought it was also based on AI so I didn't bother checking.

But I've actually found out a way to configure libre office (the software I use to edit text) to correct the things I usually write wrong and to stop bothering me about character names, so I guess I'll stick with that for a while.

Part 1 -> Part 2

Summary: a human man, living alone in the mountains finds a sick werewolf wandering near his house and takes him in.

Andreas stares at the creature laying by the fireplace, his mind focused on it's breathing - a hissing can be heard everytime it inhales - it's alive, at least... But only barely. Thanks to the warmth of the fire, some color seems to have returned to werewolf's cheeks. It looks a slightly more human now, but the finger prints are still deeply blue...

The creature's skin wraps tightly around the bones, very little muscle tissue in between and almost no sign of fat. The check bones and ribs are it's most egregious signs of starvation, while the arms and lower abdomen still retain some defined muscles. The yellowish complexion of the werewolf's skin slowly morphs into a darker one, it's most likely on the darker spectrum, but it's hard to tell right now, specially with the frost bites around it's sunken eyes and thin lips.

Andreas studies it carefully, not believe on his eyes. He has never seen someone in such a miserable state, and now... Now, what?

The man had. Been waiting for the werewolf to come to it's senses for the past hour, yet he has no idea what to do afterwards.

A low groan, barely audible over the fire, signaled the change. The werewolf’s fingers twitched, curling slightly against the fur rug. Then, with an effort that looked excruciating, its eyelids fluttered open.

Andreas tensed, gripping the cup still half-full of broth.

The eyes that stared back at him were vacant. Unfocused. No awareness, no recognition—just a hollow, feverish emptiness. The werewolf’s lips parted, and the muttering resumed.

“…sorry… I tried… I tried… wasn’t my fault… wasn’t—”

Andreas leaned forward. “Hey.”

The muttering didn’t stop.

“…too much, too much, don’t—don’t let it happen again—”

“Hey,” Andreas said again, louder this time. “Look at me.”

The werewolf blinked sluggishly, its pupils blown wide. Its breathing hitched, a sudden shiver rolling through its frail body.

Andreas set the cup aside and shifted onto his knees. “Can you understand me?”

No response. The muttering continued, a mess of fractured sentences and nonsensical apologies.

Andreas scowled. He reached out, gripping the creature’s shoulder firmly—but gently—giving it a slight shake. “Do you even know where you are?”

The werewolf flinched. Its gaze flickered, as if trying to focus, but whatever recognition might have sparked was gone in an instant.

“…too late… too late now…”

Andreas swore under his breath, pushing himself to his feet. His hands clenched at his sides as he turned away from the muttering wreck of a creature.

What the hell am I even doing?

The thing was dying. Starving, fevered, freezing from the inside out. He had done what he could, dragged it out of the snow, warmed it, fed it—barely. But was that enough? Was it even the right thing to do?

Andreas exhaled sharply, running a hand through his tangled hair. A part of him whispered that maybe he should have left it out there, let nature take its course. Maybe whatever had reduced the werewolf to this state was mercy in disguise.

But another part—quieter, but far more stubborn—refused to accept that.

With a deep breath, he stepped toward his bedroom, the wooden floor creaking beneath his boots. The space was small, barely more than a bed and a chest for his few belongings. He pulled the chest open and rifled through the clothes—thick wool shirts, an extra coat, some old trousers. Not much, but better than the rags the werewolf had been wearing.

“sorry… I can still—still go on… on... A-and...c-can carry it, I swear…” The words slurred together, barely comprehensible. “Not broken… not yet… yes...yet...still—still move…” it's hissed gasps interrupted some of the words.

Andreas exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. The nonsense just kept spilling out, looping back in on itself, an endless stream of fevered delirium. He didn’t know what the hell this thing had been through, but whatever it was, it had chewed him up and spit him out in pieces.

Carefully, hesitantly, Andreas reached out and took the werewolf’s hand. It was stiff, trembling, fingers curled inward as if they had forgotten how to stretch.

“Hey,” Andreas murmured, his thumb pressing lightly against the ice-cold skin. “?You’re lying by my fire, in my cabin. You’re safe, understand?”

The wolf parted it's lips for a moment, eyes flickering. For only a second it looked like the creature had heard him, but then, just as quickly looped back into the nonsense.

"Useful... Full moon... I do...can...useful...."

Andreas sighed, rubbing his temples. “Can you just—” He stopped, then gritted his teeth. “Can you just shut up for one damned second?”

The werewolf flinched, but the mumbling didn’t stop.

Andreas ran a hand down his face, frustration boiling beneath his ribs. He wasn’t a people person, let alone a psychiatrist , or a doctor!

If it never fully wakes up, what is he going to do with it? He can't keep it! In fact, why keep it? He isn't responsible for it. There is nothing linking the two, he doesn't even know it's name!

The werewolf’s muttering continued, a soft, incomprehensible stream of words, but something shifted in its movements. Andreas noticed it when the creature’s hand, trembling and stiff, reached out weakly toward his. It wasn’t aggressive; it wasn’t even fully conscious. But there was a desperation in its touch—a pull, a need to make contact.

Andreas hesitated, uncertain, his gaze flicking between the creature’s outstretched hand and its vacant, fevered eyes.

With a quiet exhale, he reached out, letting his fingers brush against the werewolf's cold, fragile skin. The hand that had once seemed so monstrous, so capable of violence, now felt frail and clumsy. It was an odd sensation, the stark contrast between what it was and what it had become.

The werewolf didn’t react immediately, its eyes clouded with confusion as it continued its endless muttering. But then, slowly, its fingers began to trace the braided string bracelet that circled Andreas’ wrist. The werewolf’s movements were sluggish, uncertain, but there was a delicate focus to them, a quiet curiosity. Its fingers ran over the threads, feeling the texture, the knots, the pattern.

For a moment, the muttering slowed, quieted. The creature seemed less frantic, more subdued as it examined the bracelet with a kind of fragile wonder.

Andreas couldn’t help but watch, his brow furrowing. He had no idea why this particular thing—this simple bracelet—seemed to hold the creature’s attention. But for the first time since it had fallen to his doorstep, it seemed… calmer.

"You like this?"

With a slight hesitation, Andreas pulled the bracelet off his wrist. He glanced at the werewolf, whose eyes, though still clouded, were following the movement. Gently, he placed the braided string around the creature’s hand, securing it in place. The werewolf’s fingers twitched slightly as the bracelet settled around its wrist, a thin strand of humanity, of connection, amidst the chaos of its condition.

Andreas leaned back, feeling an odd sense of something—something like peace, though it was fleeting. He didn’t know why it had worked, or if it would make any difference at all. But it seemed to quiet the creature for now, and that was something.

He sighed, rubbing his face again. He still had no idea what to do with it. But maybe, just maybe, the bracelet would help in some small way.

Andreas sat there quietly for a moment, watching the werewolf’s shallow breaths and the delicate way its fingers moved around the braided string bracelet. It didn’t make sense, not really—nothing about this situation made sense—but he had to try something.

Taking a deep breath, he spoke, trying to inject some normalcy into the madness.

“My sister made this,” he said, his voice steady, though there was a knot in his chest. “It’s a friendship bracelet. She made one for me, and one for herself. She’s... far away now, but we used to wear them together.”

The werewolf didn’t respond at first. Its glazed eyes flickered, trying to focus on him, but there was something unsettlingly distant in its gaze, as if everything was clouded over. Its breathing was strained, its lips parted as if it wanted to say something, but all it could manage was a weak, hoarse muttering.

“I can… I can still walk…”

The words felt like they were dredged from the depths of confusion, and Andreas’ heart sank. He had hoped for something more—anything that might give him a clue about what was really going on, or at least a glimmer of recognition. But all he got was that one sentence.

He felt disappointment settle over him like a heavy weight, and it tightened his chest. The werewolf’s words were fractured, as if trying to hold onto something, but it was slipping through its fingers.

“It’s okay,” Andreas said quietly, though he wasn’t sure if the creature could even understand. “You don’t need to walk. You’re safe here.”

But the werewolf wasn’t listening. It continued to speak, its voice soft, cracked with exhaustion.

“River…” The word hung in the air for a moment, and then the werewolf’s lips parted again. “p-please... 'msorry...”

Andreas stared at it. Still puzzle, even more frustrated. For a moment it seemed like the wolf would reach some reason, but again, they've sunk back to square one.

The werewolf blinked, and for a second, it seemed like it was trying to gather itself. There was a faint shift in its expression, a subtle attempt to focus. But then it slumped, its gaze drifting again.

“R-river... P-please, sorry... River....”

Andreas let out a breath, frustration building again, but he quickly tamped it down. This wasn’t the creature’s fault. It wasn’t... whatever it used to be.

"Okay..." He exhaled, trying to stay cool, maybe think of something else he could say to help.

The werewolf’s body trembled, and the muttering continued in fragments. It was clear now that it wasn’t responding to his words directly—it was just grasping for something, anything, in the fog of its delirium. But Andreas couldn’t stop the twinge of helplessness creeping up in him.

It was trying, in its own way. But it felt like he was chasing shadows, trying to piece together a puzzle that kept shifting beneath his fingers. At least it wasn't repeating the same words as before.

Andreas leaned back against the wall, rubbing his hands over his face. The silence stretched for a moment, and then, with another exhausted sigh, he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Just... hang in there. I’ll figure this out.”

The werewolf’s eyes flickered again, but there was no comprehension in them, no recognition. Just the endless, scattered muttering.

The werewolf’s muttering came to an abrupt halt as an erratic coughing fit seized its chest. The sound was harsh, ragged, its breath rattling in the creature’s throat as it tried desperately to clear it, but nothing came out except a dry, painful rasp. Its body trembled with the effort, a wave of exhaustion sweeping over it immediately after, and it collapsed back against the blanket, its mouth half-open as it gasped for air.

Andreas froze, his heart skipping a beat. He could feel his own throat tightening as the creature’s breathing became more erratic, but he couldn’t stop himself from staring. The werewolf’s dry, cracked lips parted, and it attempted to mumble once more, but there was no voice, only a hollow, strained sound that echoed faintly in the air.

"…river…”

The word barely made it past the creature’s lips, but this time, something in it struck Andreas with sudden clarity. River? Could it be... thirst? Was the creature trying to ask for water? Maybe even clinging to some old, instinctual memory of what it needed?

Without another thought, Andreas sprang to his feet, his pulse quickening. There was something he could do. Maybe not much, but something.

He rushed to the kitchen, his boots pounding against the wooden floor as he made his way to the stove. The kettle was still warm from earlier—he’d heated it up for his own tea, but now, it had a more pressing purpose. The steam rising from the water was a welcome sight, and for a moment, he just stood there, the warm vapor filling his lungs.

Grabbing the kettle, Andreas poured the warm water into a mug, the warmth flowing in, heating up his hand a little.

He hurried back to the fireside, the mug in his hand, and knelt beside the werewolf once again. The creature’s eyes flickered, still hazy but focused a little more intently now, its breath more shallow.

“Here… drink,” he whispered. “It’s water. You’re thirsty, right? You need this.”

Andreas took a steady breath and carefully tilted the mug toward the creature, letting the warm liquid flow slowly into its dry mouth.

At first, there was a slight resistance, but as the water passed over the werewolf’s lips, its throat seemed to respond. The coughing stopped for a brief moment, and the creature, still trembling, began to swallow, its throat moving with each fragile gulp.

Andreas’ pulse steadied, his hope igniting just a little. Maybe, just maybe, this was the first step.

When Andreas pulled the mug away, the werewolf let out a soft, almost relieved sigh, its body seeming to relax for the first time in what felt like forever. There was a faint, almost imperceptible smile pulling at the corners of its lips, as if it found some fleeting comfort in the water.

Andreas gently wiped the sides of its mouth, his fingers brushing against its cool, cracked skin. The contrast between the warmth of the water and the cold of the werewolf’s face was striking, and his gaze flicked to the creature’s fingers, still a deep, painful shade of blue from frostbite. The tips of its nose and cheeks were similarly burned by the cold, the frostbite eating into its skin, leaving it raw.

But there was something else. The creature’s complexion had begun to shift, moving from that pale, almost sickly yellowish hue to something more natural, more in line with its true coloring. The deep shades of its skin were finally starting to return as warmth seeped into its body. It was recovering, even if slowly, and it made Andreas feel a strange mix of relief and anxiety.

The man instinctively reached for the creature’s hand, his fingers tracing the thin, trembling digits. He pressed the werewolf’s fingers against the bracelet, the small gesture grounding him. Andreas didn’t pull away. He let the moment linger, uncertain if the werewolf truly understood or if it was just reacting instinctively. Either way, he stayed.

They spent the next hour like this—Andreas speaking softly, repeating simple words, and the werewolf echoing them back in a slow, uncertain voice. It wasn’t much, but it was something. At times, the creature’s eyes would flicker with brief awareness before clouding over again. It was exhausting to watch, but Andreas refused to let frustration take over.

Eventually, the werewolf’s grip on consciousness slipped again. Its breathing slowed, becoming more even, and its muttering faded into quiet, shuddering breaths. Sleep had claimed it at last.

Andreas exhaled, rubbing his face. His body ached, his mind heavy with uncertainty. There was no telling how long this recovery would take—if it was even possible. But the fact that the creature had responded at all, that it had clung to those few words…

Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance to pull it back from whatever abyss it had fallen into.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. How did he even end up in this situation? His life had been simple, isolated—exactly the way he wanted it. But now…

Andreas glanced at the sleeping werewolf.

summary: a man who lives on a isolated mountain rescues a sick werewolf he found wandering near his cabin.

The wind howled across the snow-covered peaks, biting through the layers of fur and wool that wrapped around Andrea's body. He trudged through the deep powder, the weight of his catch—the day's solitary prize—a string of fish that seemed almost too light in comparison to the heaviness of the mountain air. The sun had dipped behind the jagged horizon hours ago, leaving only the faint glow of twilight to guide him back to the small cabin nestled between the towering pines. Despite the cold that gnawed at his bones, there was comfort in the isolation of his home on the mountain. It had been years since he'd seen another soul, and the quiet was something he treasured.

But as he neared the clearing that marked the edge of his property, something shifted in the air. The usual stillness felt… wrong. His eyes narrowed as he spotted a figure near the edge of the trees—a hunched silhouette stumbling through the snow, too large to be a deer or any creature he knew. As Andreas approached cautiously, he saw it more clearly: a beast, its fur matted and dirty, the eyes seemed lost and gleamed feverishly in the dim light. It was sick, sick in a way that unsettled him more than he could understand. And it wasn’t just any creature. There, in the depths of its feral gaze, Andreas recognized the unmistakable signs of a werewolf.

The man hesitated for a second, the wolf might hear his steps, sense his approach. Even sick, a creature such as this can still pose a threat, and a significant one at that... Andreas lowered his body, crouching as much as he could, trying to make himself look smaller and stepped further. He quickly glanced at the werewolf almost as if asking for approval. The werewolf, however didn't seem to bother at, simply stumbling back and forth a few times. The poor thing looks completely out of it as it tries to keep it's eyes from closing. Andreas keeps moving forward. As he gets closer, he sees the werewolf moving his lips in a pattern, almost as if reciting something. It's stumbles seem to also be part of a pattern, or at least an attempted one. It looks it's trying to walk towards the cabin, but the snow covering the ground is too thick and the lack of proper equipment can't help it. In fact the wolf is barely wearing anything, the few coverings it has on are nothing but thin layers of rags. The wolf trembles violently underneath them.

From this distance, Andreas can finally piece together the puzzle in front of him. The man is eager to rush to the wolf's rescue, but... He may startle it... Perhaps a more distant approach...

Andreas heart pounded in his chest as he took a cautious step forward.

“Hey!” he shouted, his voice carrying across the snow. “What are you doing here?”

His words echoed off the trees, but the creature didn’t react, its sickly gaze still fixed somewhere distant. A knot of worry twisted in his gut—He had heard stories, folk tales about the "wolf man", as well as personal accounts from those who have seen them... this wasn’t the way a werewolf usually behaved. They were predators, wild and untamed, not... this. He took another step, louder this time, his voice rougher.

“I said, what’s wrong with you? Get away from my cabin!”

The beast didn’t flinch. It was as though it couldn’t hear him at all, or worse—it simply didn’t care. Its heavy, labored breathing filled the air, but there was no movement, no aggression, just an eerie stillness that unnerved him more than anything. Arvid’s gaze flicked to the snow around the creature’s feet, noticing the tracks that were faintly smudged in the drifts. It had been dragging itself here, struggling. Something was terribly wrong with it. In the fading light, Arvid could only see the outline of its fur matted with dirt and blood. He swallowed hard, torn between fear and an odd, growing sense of pity for the beast. Whatever had happened to it, this was no longer the monster he’d been raised to fear.

Before Andreas could yell yet again to the creature's seemly deaf ears, the wolf fell to the ground. Collapsing without any warning. The man rushed towards it, glancing around, looking for a reason, an explanation... Anything!

its massive body crumpling into the snow with a low, strained groan. Panic surged through him, overriding the usual caution he kept in the presence of anything so dangerous. Without thinking, he rushed forward, the cold air burning his lungs as he approached the fallen creature. The wolf's fur was matted and soaked in sweat, its body trembling violently as it panted, each breath shallow and labored. A faint whine escaped from the beast’s throat, a sound so pitiful it stopped Arvid in his tracks for a moment.

He knelt beside the werewolf, his hands trembling as he took in the strange sight. The creature’s rags—old, worn, and stained with dried blood—clung loosely to its form, but there were no visible wounds. No fresh blood, no gashes or bites. Arvid’s brow furrowed in confusion. How could something so vicious, so powerful, be in this state? There was no trace of the feral creature he was used to seeing—this one seemed… human. The faintest traces of humanity still lingered in its features.

With what it felt like one last labored breath the werewolf's eyes started to close. Andreas gently slaps it's cheek. Clammy cold skin feels odd, but... Oh well...

The wolf's eyes flicker and seem to focus on Andreas for a second, before growing heavy again. 'not quite dead, not quite alive'. The sense of urgency hits him like a punch in the gut, growing inside his chest, making him forget reason. The creature may be a dangerous beast, a predator, all of that, but...

It stopped trembling, it's breathing became more erratic as it fighting to stay conscious was too much work for it. Andreas slaps his cheek once more.

"Hey! Stay awake, ja? Do not close your eyes!"

Concentrating his adrenaline, Andreas scoops the creature off the snow and lifts it. It's not very heavy, this can't be a good sign, either... Now that he is closer, the man hears a glimpse of the werewolf's muttering.

The howling wind bit at his face, but he barely noticed. His focus was on the wolf’s shallow, erratic breaths and the muttered nonsense spilling from its lips.

“…no, no, I didn’t mean to—please… s’not my fault… I… I tried, I swear I tried…”

Andreas’ grip tightened. The words, though fractured and delirious, carried a weight of desperation. The voice itself was strained, hoarse—like someone who had been screaming for far too long.

The cabin was close now. Warmth. Shelter. He had left the fire burning before heading out to fish, and for once, he was grateful for his own habits. The front door was already unlocked—he kicked it open with his boot and stepped inside.

The heat hit him immediately, chasing away the mountain’s brutal chill. He wasted no time, carrying the werewolf straight to the hearth and lowering it onto the thick fur rug. The moment his arms let go, the creature let out a weak, involuntary whimper, curling in on itself slightly, as if the loss of contact had left it exposed.

Andreas didn’t know what to make of that.

Kneeling beside the werewolf, he worked quickly, stripping away the soaked and tattered rags it wore. Beneath them, the creature was all bone and sinew, its ribs pressing against the thin layer of flesh. It was starving.

The muttering continued—disjointed apologies, strings of gibberish, words that barely sounded human.

“…didn’t know… the moon, it—no, not again, please… sorry, sorry, sorry….

He pulled a thick wool blanket from the back of a chair and draped it over the werewolf’s trembling form. The firelight flickered across its pale, sweat-slicked face, casting strange shadows over sharp, gaunt features. The mumbling continued—soft, fevered, words bleeding into each other.

Andreas hesitated for only a second before pushing himself to his feet and hurrying toward the kitchen. It wasn’t far, just a few steps away in the single-room cabin, but his hands were already moving before his mind caught up. He had to get something warm into the creature—fast.

But what the hell do you give a werewolf?

He yanked open the small wooden pantry, eyes flicking over the meager supplies. Dried meats, bread that was already going stale, a few root vegetables. Nothing that seemed right. His gaze landed on a small pot tucked into the corner. Broth. He had made some the other night. Simple, nothing but chicken and water boiled down, but it would do.

Without wasting another second, he grabbed the pot and set it over the fire, stripping out the solid bits of chicken. The liquid warmed quickly, the familiar scent of salted stock filling the cabin. He stood there, gripping the wooden spoon too tightly, listening to the sound of the werewolf’s strained breathing behind him.

Too slow.

He yanked the pot off the heat before it could get too hot and poured a small amount into a wooden cup. Testing the temperature against his wrist—warm, but not scalding—he turned back toward the werewolf.

The creature had barely moved, its chest rising and falling in uneven, shallow breaths.

Andreas crouched beside it again, his heart hammering against his ribs. He wasn’t even sure if the thing could drink in this state.

“Hey,” he said gruffly, shaking the werewolf’s shoulder lightly. “You need to drink this.”

No response. The eyes, barely cracked open before, were now shut.

So, carefully, he shifted closer, slipped an arm beneath the creature’s shoulders, and lifted it just enough to press the cup to its lips.

"Come on,” he muttered. “Drink.”

The werewolf didn’t react at first. Then, just as Andreas was about to pull back, there was a weak, shuddering swallow.

Good. That was good.

Part 3

Shifting/transformation

(tw: mention of suicide; mental illness; murder; slavery; minor whump)

Werewolf who got disfigured from a transformation.

Werewolves are usually able to transform freely, at will ever since they've had their first full on transformation. Which happens at about the age of 16 maybe 18 if they are late bloomers.

For human Borns:

Its somewhat common for some children to be able to shift their ears or grow their claws/fangs, maybe even shift their nose into a small snout. However full transformations into wolf form only happen after a certain age, almost always as a result of very intense emotions.

(It is possible for a pup to transform earlier than that, but it's usually not a good sign)

For wolf Borns:

Contrary to popular belief among humans, it is possible that a werewolf is born in wolf form. This event happens at random, some do some don't.

In that case, they'll transform into a more humanoid form initially and as they calm down they'll gain the ability to turn into a human.

In both cases transformation almost always happens during full moon (when werewolves get more sensitive) is extremely painful at first, but wolves get used to it with practice ('practice' includes not only shifting multiple times, but also plenty emotion management, breathing exercises and physical exercises).

Needless to say that werewolves who grow up with humans, be it willingly or otherwise, struggle with shifting.

Specially enslaved wolves. Their masters see their shifting as a mechanical thing, something they do only to get in a more convenient form to do their labor. Therefore these wolves are never properly trained to get in the mindset for shifting and end up having horrible memories of their first time, which only makes the whole process worse. Many of them see it almost as punishment and constantly get a either mentally blocked or uncontrollable.

mentally blocked/ stunted - humans tend to give up on them and they are used for labor a strong human could usually do. Most captive wolves are like that.

Uncontrollable/ Feral - these are, more often than not, a result of an already disturbed mind. They tend to shift whenever they get too upset. It's out of their control, they might try to hold it in, but it's like holding a sneeze. Shifting is their only way to release frustration. They often don't remember anything when they are in wolf form and seem to hold very bad feelings about the whole experience. As dangerous as they sound, they are extremely valuable. Their strength and endurance are like no other and even if they look impossible to control, some trainers found out that they could administer small burns to make them comply.

Unfortunately feral shifters don't live very long, these often reach the mark of 27 maybe 30 before perishing. The causes tend to fatal malformations during shifting, declining mental health or work accidents.

Malformations:

The bones change sizes and shapes, muscles stretch, the skin is broken and reformed... Many things happen to a wolf's body during a transformation, although malformations are uncommon withing their communities, captive wolves are often victim of them. Since they aren't being mentored about it or performing exercises to control it, things can go horribly wrong during stressful shifting. Vital organs can get crushed or punctured by malformed bones, the stress can cause a heart failure, their noses may shift wrongly and no longer allow enough air into their bodies, and more often than not, they might swallow their tongue.

Metal health:

Feral werewolves can become extremely mentally unstable, in fact most of them do. Plenty of feral rescues have been found complete apathetic or even catatonic, others describe auditory hallucinations and paranoid delusions (most commonly believing they are part of a hive-mind or that someone else is controlling their limbs). All of them seem to be suffering from a lot of confusion and some type of split personality (not exclusive related to their wolf form). Due to all of this, it's not uncommon for ferals to hurt themselves commit suicide, be it willingly or by accident. Others are terminated by their owners as well, once they become too difficult to control, or reason with.

Work accidents:

Considering the 2 other reasons above it's needless to say, ferals can cause a lot of accidents while working.

Changing the topic for wolves who willing grow up among humans.

Those thend to also not be very found of shifting, mostly seeing it as inconvenient and troublesome. Despite being in healthier environments the lack of proper shifting exercise can lead to complications as well. You see, shifting is a natural part of a werewolf's life and not being able to do it safely. Even if the wolf isn't particular interested in their wilder side, restarting oneself from their nature usually leads frustration building up inside them, and if they aren't trained in how to release it properly, they become susceptible to malformations when the need to shift becomes unbearable.

And if they are trying to restrain themselves due to fear of their wolf side, it can also cause mental instability. Since they can't deny what they are.

Human x wolf relationships

Although some human villages have found a way to capture, 'tame' and enslave werewolves. There are also humans who befriend or bond with werewolves.

It is not common to see werewolves walking by themselves among humans, they are usually very private and tend to only have relationships within their own tribes and communities. Therefore, it's rare for a human to one of them, let alone for a relationship. Rare, but not impossible.

Some people who live near werewolf communities might have the chance to see a a wolf who ditched the pack, or was kicked out, or even an abandoned pup and take them in.

In such circumstances, wolves are almost always docile and cooperative. They are very social by nature, and just like humans, enjoy taking responsibilities and make a difference in other people's lives. It's unusual but not impossible to see a human or even a human family who 'adopted' a werewolf.

It is also possible for the opposite to happen. Wolves tend to not get involved in humans matters, but there are cases of human babies who were adopted by wolf communities and grew up as one of their own. Or even more rare cases of humans who managed to join a community through friendship/ romantic bonds.

Alright here is the whump: