Ryan McKennitt

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The witchwolf is a subset of werewolf that allows the werewolf greater control and mastery of their lupine form. When contracted with a witch versed in alchemy, the witch can provide the werewolf with tinctures that allow them to transform at will outside of the full moon, with less pain, and maintain human intelligence when transformed.

In exchange, the werewolf is a contracted familiar: the witch’s protector, muscle, and gofer, physically incapable of disobeying a direct command from his or her contracted witch.

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Occupation: Drunkard, Familiar

Sanctuary: Mountain Caves; The Ravine

Slouched in a far corner of the sanctuary, as far removed from social interaction as he can manage, sits a disheveled man in torn jeans and a hooded coat. He would otherwise go unnoticed, if not for those luminescent yellow eyes. Above a chiseled jaw hidden in scruff, and beneath thick, unkempt brown hair, his feral eyes reflect brightly in the dim light, highlighting features torn by old scars. Though he’s huddled in upon himself, drowning in his too-large bomber jacket, one can still easily guess at his physique. He’s tall, and broad-shouldered, though two years of inactivity coupled with heavy drinking has, despite the post-apocalyptic era and rough living circumstances, left him somewhat soft. One could imagine that he’d once had a handsome, athletic figure, but a long time has passed since he put much effort into his health, hygiene, or physical well-being. The hollows of his eyes are characterized by dark circles, as insomnia and nightmares plague his sleep schedule. An unlit cigarette hangs lazily from his lips, and a flask is in his hand. His gaze trails off into the far distance, though attempting to follow it lends no clue as to where his mind is while he sits in self-exile, seeming perpetually tortured.

Hell. Everything went to hell. Two years ago, she died in the chaos that broke out, as modern life quickly devolved into looting and abuse in the streets. Hellbeasts were a sudden and real threat, scattered through the city as human and subhuman alike screamed, ran, and sought refuge. Humanity’s facade of tolerance broke.

She was ripped from his arms as they attempted to flee their dream-turned-twisted-nightmare of a suburban lifestyle. Friendly neighbors became violent enemies. Human and subhuman could no longer co-exist. Their cross-species relationship, common knowledge and regarded with polite smiles only a week before, was now an abomination. The child she bore him was abhorrent.

Monster, they called him, as he was forced to watch them beat his wife. Animal. Atrocity. There was nothing he could do, as hell swept over them like a wave, mob mentality corrupting the people they'd lived next to for years. The waxing moon overhead taunted him, leaving him as effectively human as the people that hurt her, hurt him, keeping the power of the beast just out of reach beyond his fingertips.

They were left for dead in the streets as the wave moved on, the werewolf and his human bride. While he was left weak and bloody, fated to eventually heal, his wife, nor the child within her, would survive, succumbing to the cold and dark while cradled in his trembling arms.

Torn by grief, the next full moon found the rampaging beast rampantly slaughtering at the front lines of conflict, a yellow-eyed horror with thick hide that rent any human that came at him in twain. But this bravado and dedication to proving himself everything humanity hated was short-lived. The gas came, and along with it, his apathy.

Ryan allowed himself to be swept up with the others, fleeing for their lives, desperate for some sort of solace from the conflict that broke out after the fragile stasis between human and subhuman had shattered. For weeks afterward, he wondered why he ran, and why he hadn’t merely breathed deeply and let himself succumb, let it tear him apart from the inside out, so he could join his wife and unborn son in eternal slumber.

Retreating into apathy, barely self-conscious enough to care for his own well-being, Ryan drowned himself in substance abuse, self-medicating with whatever he could find available in their exile. A great beast of their last battle before retreat, now nothing more than a broken man, disillusioned and jaded by the world around him. The more he can forget himself, the better.

He continues to exist as thus, seeming to crave death, though a spark of rage buried beneath the alcohol and languor inspires what little will to live he has left. A need for revenge burns deep and hot in the pit of his stomach, an insatiable, hollow hunger he attempts to fill with whatever mind-altering potions the witches and alchemists will give him.

When he wishes to be, the man is irresistibly charming, though he maintains this facade only for the sake of acquiring physical comfort, before moving on. Lasting connections are far too painful. Though he is interminably lonely, the fear of losing someone he cares about in this volatile world is too great to allow him the luxury of forging new relationships.

Within the past year, one of the witches from whom he acquired his narcotic tinctures offered him a deal. The allure of power, the ability to do the very thing that may have saved his wife -- transform at will -- caused him to forsake his freedom without much thought. Though there are times he regrets his impulsivity, the contract has allowed him incredible control, and a renewed, mild interest in protecting the sanctuary in which he resides. Despite this, his contrary, pessimistic attitude is grating to superiors, and he maintains seclusion from his peers.

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His current closest relationship is with the witch that owns him, tumultuous though it may be. Bound by the magical contract between them, he cannot refuse a direct order, no matter how much he may loathe the demand

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