Gael

Name: Gael

birth month: May 21st

Zodiac sign: Taurus

Age: 18

Height: 1.70

In his human form, he is tall, taller than normal, with a height that seems unsettling because it doesn't suit his posture. He never stands up straight. He is always slightly hunched over, as if carrying his own body were a burden or a source of pain. His shoulders are slumped, his back curved, his head tilted slightly forward.

It's hairy, even by human standards. The dark hair is noticeable on his arms, neck, and hands. Not excessive, but enough to draw attention. It doesn't look like he's groomed it. It looks like something that's just there and no one bothered to fix.

Her face is marked by deep, dark, sunken, permanent circles under her eyes. They aren't from a bad night's sleep: they're from someone who hasn't slept well in years. Her gaze is penetrating, intense, but at the same time weary. As if observing were an effort, and yet she couldn't stop. When she looks at someone, she does so steadily, without haste, and takes a long time to look away.

He walks as if he doesn't want to. Literally. His steps are slow, dragging, listless. Sometimes it seems like he's going to stop in the middle of the road for no reason. Moving isn't natural for him; it's an obligation. His body feels heavy.

Her hair is black, messy, always out of place. It falls over her face, her eyes, her forehead. She doesn't try to fix it. She doesn't seem to care. It gives the impression that she never finishes drying it or styling it properly.

Her skin is pale, with a dull tone. Her body bears marks, bruises, and scars. Some are visible on her arms and neck. Others are just visible beneath her clothing. They don't appear recent, but neither do they seem entirely old. It's as if her body receives blows that no one sees and that never fully heals.

When he speaks, he does so little. His voice is usually low, somewhat raspy. He doesn't gesture much. Sometimes he remains silent longer than usual, as if thinking of a response were tiring.

He hardly ever smiles. And when he does, it's barely noticeable; you can just make out slightly longer-than-normal canines. Not enough for anyone to say anything… but enough to leave an uncomfortable feeling that things shouldn't be this way.

The most unsettling thing is the feeling it leaves behind. Being near it creates tension. Not immediate fear. Discomfort. The body reacts before the mind.

It doesn't seem dangerous. He seems tired of being what he is.

In his wolf form, he is enormous. Not just a "big wolf." Truly enormous. Taller than a grown man when he stands upright, with a long, massive body, built to endure and destroy. He doesn't appear agile because of lightness, but because of sheer, contained strength.

The coat is thick, coarse, and dark, almost black, with denser areas on the back, neck, and chest. The hair doesn't fall neatly: it's bristly and irregular, as if it were always under tension. In some places, lighter patches and scars hidden beneath the fur are visible—marks from old fights that haven't fully healed.

The head is large and heavy. The snout is long and strong, with long, thick, and clearly visible canines—not clean or perfect, but worn. Teeth of a true hunter. When it opens its mouth, you can feel the weight of its bite even before it happens.

The eyes are the most unsettling thing about it: dark, bright, alert. Not wild in a chaotic sense. They are intelligent. They observe. They calculate. It doesn't attack impulsively. It attacks when it decides enough is enough.

Its legs are long and powerful, with well-defined muscles beneath the fur. Its claws are thick and curved, designed to dig into earth, stone, or flesh. It makes no unnecessary noise when walking. It moves with a heavy but controlled presence, like something that knows it doesn't need to run to inspire fear.

His chest is broad, his breathing deep and audible. Each exhalation feels like a warning. He doesn't roar for dramatic effect. If he grunts, it's low, vibrant, and makes the air tremble.

It doesn't convey madness. It conveys contained ferocity.

This is not a wolf that loses control. It's one that chooses when to use it.

And what's most disturbing: even in this form, there's something weary about him. As if strength weren't a gift, but a burden he's carried for far too long.

Gael is territorial by nature. He doesn't need to raise his voice or physically impose himself to set boundaries. His mere presence does the trick. He defends the places he considers his with quiet seriousness. He doesn't like anyone invading his space, neither physically nor emotionally.

He is solitary, even when he is with others. He can be surrounded by people, including his family, and still seem detached. Not because he doesn't care about them, but because he doesn't know how to be fully present with others without feeling on guard.

He has a serious, reserved nature. He's not cold out of cruelty, but out of emotional restraint. He doesn't waste gestures, words, or reactions. He speaks only when necessary and dislikes repeating himself.

He appears lazy. He moves slowly, reacts late, and seems listless. In reality, it's a form of control. He observes before acting. He conserves energy. When he decides to move, he does so with precision.

He can be blunt. Not out of malice, but because he doesn't know how to soften his thoughts. If something bothers him, he says so directly or withdraws. He doesn't tolerate persistence or other people's curiosity.

He's protective, especially of his own. He doesn't show it with hugs or words. He does it by staying close, silently watching over them, intervening without being asked. If anyone threatens his family, Gael reacts without hesitation.

He struggles to show affection. When he does, it's awkward. A minimal gesture. A constant presence. A shared silence. He's not affectionate, but he's fiercely loyal.

He has a limited patience. He can endure a lot, but when it runs out, the change is obvious. He doesn't explode with shouts. He becomes still. Too still. And that's usually the final warning.

He is observant. He notices details that others overlook: movements, tone of voice, intentions. He trusts instinct more than words.

He doesn't look for trouble. But it doesn't avoid them either if they cross its limit.

Deep down, Gael carries a silent guilt. Not for anything he's done, but for who he is. He knows he makes people uncomfortable. He knows he frightens them. And he lives trying not to cross a line that no one has ever fully explained to him.

Gael's family was well-known in the town. Respected people, with money, land, and a clean name. They weren't arrogant. They greeted people, helped them, and kept their word. The kind of family no one questioned.

They had a simple wish: a daughter. Nothing more. At least one.

But life decided otherwise.

One after another, boys were born. Six. All healthy. All strong. They never complained, never showed displeasure. They patiently tried again, convinced that sooner or later the daughter they so longed for would arrive.

On the seventh delivery, something went wrong.

Gael was born with complications. His mother almost died. He did too. Doctors managed to save them, but the birth left lasting effects. The verdict was clear and final: there would be no more children. Never.

The family accepted the blow in silence.

At first, Gael seemed like a normal baby. But as the months went by, strange things began to happen. He learned to walk too fast. To run, too early. He would run away to the mountains, to the forest, as if he knew exactly where to go.

His teeth came in earlier than normal. Not just earlier: they were overdeveloped. He would bite. Not playfully. On impulse.

Over the years, the behavior worsened.

He hunted birds with his bare hands. He pulled fish from the river and tore them apart with his teeth. The neighbors began to complain: wounded cows, dead chickens, disemboweled animals left uneaten. Gael didn't kill out of hunger. He killed for territory.

He was the same with people. He didn't attack... but he made his presence felt. Long stares. Defensive posture. Physical rejection. Nobody felt comfortable around him.

Desperate, his parents sought help outside the village. An old man, knowledgeable in things that cannot be taught. Upon seeing him, he didn't ask for proof. He didn't hesitate.

He only said one sentence:

"That boy isn't normal. He's the seventh son. And that carries an ancient curse. The werewolf curse."

He explained that there was only one way out. A forgotten tradition: The child's godfather had to be the president. Only then would the curse be broken.

He explained that there was only one way out. A forgotten tradition: The child's godfather had to be the president. Only then would the curse be broken.

The family tried.

The president refused.

He said it was crazy. A country superstition. Nonsense.

And so, without ritual, without protection, and with no one willing to take on the impossible, Gael was marked.

The town never found out the whole truth. But since then, the house has been isolated. even with the family together... And Gael… learned to live with something inside him that he never asked for.

He is not a monster by choice. It is the result of not having been listened to in time.