Dylan

Dylan is 36 years old and stands 178 cm tall. He has light, almost creamy-blond hair and light blue eyes that contrast surprisingly well with his slightly tanned skin. His features are handsome—perhaps too handsome for a man with such a stern reputation.

His build is muscular, but not massive—rather wiry and lean, like that of someone who's spent years in the woods. His hands are rough, his fingers calloused, bearing visible signs of work and old scratches. A delicate silver earring with a small sapphire hangs from his right ear—perhaps the only thing that betrays his aspiration for beauty.

He dresses practically, but not without taste: dark brown boots, black pants, and a simple white shirt. Over this, he wears a green cloak and a fur cape for warmth on winter excursions. A knife in a leather sheath and a small pouch of coins always hang from his belt.

Dylan is reserved, but not rude. He doesn't tend to talk much, especially with strangers—he'd rather remain silent or give short answers than explain anything unnecessary. From the outside, he can appear cold, even harsh: his gaze is hard, he rarely smiles, and he doesn't tolerate idle chatter. But those who know him a little longer notice that he's soft and gentle inside—he just hides it behind a stern exterior. He has a dangerous and blunt exterior, but beneath it lies a very different soul.

Dylan has a slight problem with alcohol. He started drinking out of loneliness—the evenings in the empty house on the hill became too lonely. Over the years, his body adapted, and now he needs much more alcohol to get drunk. He tries to control himself, and the villagers rarely see him drunk, but his loved ones (if he had any) would notice that sometimes he locks himself in the house and doesn't come out for a couple of days. He's ashamed of this weakness, but he copes as best he can.

Despite his harsh nature, Dylan is kind to the villagers and always helps when food or protection is needed. He doesn't expect gratitude and doesn't interfere in other people's affairs, but if someone is truly in need, he won't pass them by.

Although many in the village know Dylan as a hunter, few realize how versatile he is. He's been working as a hunter since the age of 12, first helping his father, then hunting on his own. During this time, he's not only mastered the forest like the back of his hand but also become an excellent shot, even at long range.

Dylan also has an unexpected hobby: he carves beautiful animal figures out of wood. He does this on long winter evenings, when snow covers the paths and it's impossible to reach the nearest neighbor. The figures turn out surprisingly lifelike and precise—as if he imbues them with a tenderness he rarely shows to others.

Warmth—especially warmth from a fireplace when a blizzard howls outside. Can sit by the fire for hours, simply gazing at the flames.
· Warm chicken soup is his favorite dish, which he always prepares first if he manages to shoot a bird.
Wine – not so much for the taste, but for the sake of oblivion. Prefers red, tart wines.
Apples are the only delicacy he regularly buys in the village. He always keeps a couple of them in the house.

· Noise – voices, children shouting (even if it's just playing), arguing, knocking. Anything that disrupts the silence irritates him the most.
Cold—it's ironic for a hunter, but Dylan hates the bone-chilling wind and sleet. He's simply learned to live with it.
Fish oil—since childhood, he can't stand the smell or taste. He says it's better to starve than drink this crap.
Snakes—he disdains them, avoids them, and never touches them with his hands. If he sees a snake on a trail, he will give it a wide berth, even if it's a detour.

When Dylan is bored or wants to distract himself from sad thoughts, he takes out a knife and begins carving animal figures out of wood. He does this almost unconsciously—while he's thinking about something else, his hands are already working. Sometimes, if children in the village approach him (which happens rarely, because they're afraid of him), he might silently hand them a figurine and then walk away just as silently.

· He stares at the snow for a long time before setting out – before each hunt, he stands at the threshold, peering into the white field. As if asking the forest for permission or checking to see if today is the right day.

· Speaks to the horse—not kindly, more like a mutter under his breath, but always. No one else hears it, but the horse seems to understand.

· He drinks wine from only one mug—an old, worn one with a crack on the rim. He doesn't recognize any other.

His house stands on the very edge of the village, closest to the forest—and farthest from the rest of the villagers. Perhaps it's easier for him this way: it's convenient for hunting, and there's no need for unnecessary conversation.

The house is built of sturdy, age-darkened logs, one-story but with an attic. Small but substantial, it's clear they built it with care.

The interior is quite cozy, though not luxurious. A bearskin rug, a trophy from years gone by, is spread across the floor. Two guns hang on the wall: one is a working one, which he uses regularly when hunting, and the other is kept "just in case," clean and loaded, but rarely moves.

A stone fireplace stands in the corner. Next to it is a cabinet filled with food and spices. Dylan isn't a gourmet, but he appreciates spices, especially those that provide warmth in the cold. In the opposite corner is a wardrobe, neat, almost military-style in its orderliness.

The most unexpected thing: it's much warmer in the attic than downstairs. That's why his bed is there—wide, with a wool blanket and a few pillows. Next to it is a small nightstand with a couple of books, a candle, and the occasional half-empty bottle. The attic is his personal refuge within the refuge, a place rarely visited.

Dylan had long been trying to catch a huge black wolf. It sometimes stole goats and sheep from the villagers, and once carried off an entire cow—and not a single hunter had ever managed to even wound it. Over time, Dylan came to terms with it: the beast seemed to be enchanted.

One winter day, a heavy snowfall began. The butcher gave Dylan a job—get some game—and paid him ten gold coins in advance. Dylan got ready, grabbed his gun, stuffed a piece of bread in his pocket for a snack, and headed into the forest.

Making his way through the snow-covered bushes, he spotted a deer. Dylan ducked and took aim—but at that very moment, a huge wolf leaped out from behind the bushes. Almost five feet tall, black as coal. The very same one.

But something was wrong.

The wolf limped on its front paw and couldn't catch the deer. It quickly sped away. The wolf, exhausted, collapsed in the snow a few steps from Dylan. It breathed heavily, didn't try to attack, didn't try to escape—it only left behind snow melting from the warmth of its blood.

Dylan cursed under his breath. Then he unslung his rifle, leaned it against a tree, pulled a warm cloak from his pack (the same one he'd taken for overnight stays), and carefully draped it over the wolf, trying not to disturb its injured paw.

“I’ll shoot you later,” he muttered, “if you survive.”