Post by JackSWolfe on Sept 30, 2013 18:56:35 GMT -5
Here's some backstory that you need to know in order to understand Jack's brother.
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Twenty years ago, Christopher Polaris Wolfe came home to the commune and farm in Waterbury, Vermont that the Wolfes called home along with several other families. He was seventeen years old, and he had been on a bender with some friends from school. Instead of being falling-down drunk, though, he was higher than a kite on LSD and cocaine, and as he came into the living room where his parents, two aunts, an uncle, and a cousin sat, he drew a pistol.
“All of you are possessed!” he screamed, “and I’m going to make sure that none of you get out of this room alive to hurt anybody else.” The drugs had made Chris psychotically paranoid, and the fourteen-year-old Jack had, of course, crept down the hall to investigate what was going on. He could barely see his brother’s face, covered in sweat, hands shaking as they clutched the gun, eyes blank and unfeeling. He could have called the police, but one officer in rural Vermont would have taken an hour to get there on his own, no such thing as a negotiating team for hours around. Jack went to his parents’ bedroom and got his father’s hunting rifle from the closet, and loaded it, swearing to himself that he would only shoot if Chris aimed at a person and looked as if he was going to fire.
By the time he got back down the hall, Chris had gone from being wild to eerily calm, slowly turning to each person in the room, calling them by name and telling them what devil he perceived in them. For the better part of an hour, this continued until his aunt Betty begged him to let them go. Chris raised the gun again, aimed it, and cried out one word:
“Die!”
Chris’ finger didn’t get the chance to pull the trigger. Jack fired the hunting rifle, not at Chris but at the gun, trying to shoot it from his brother’s hand. But the noise of the rifle being shot made Chris lunge forward, and instead of hitting the gun, it went into the young man’s side, the large round going through one of the great vessels that lead from the heart and causing him to bleed to death in a matter of seconds. The police were called, the whole family was questioned at length, but Jack could not be found.
In a field not far from the house, a large golden wolf lay crying. Having had no idea that he was a kind of werewolf, the stress of the whole situation had forced Jack into his first shift, which was painful and traumatic. A few hours later he was able to summon the strength to shift back, after which various investigators were called in with expertise in the paranormal. Jack was found to have acted in self-defense and defense of six of his family members, and after a few days in a mental health facility being evaluated, he was released with no stain on his record. Everybody who lived in the commune considered Jack a hero for saving so many people, and eventually Jack started to think the same of himself, but there was a lot he had to sort out. He knew that he had killed his older brother, a brother who had always been good to him until that night that he’d just snapped. The toxicology report showed several different drugs in his system and there was little doubt as to the cause of his psychotic break.
Chris was buried in the town cemetery, and on his own birthday, Jack made a pilgrimage every year to visit the grave, put flowers there, and cry. When he got there, the guilt was overwhelming, and for several years Jack would go in wolf form in the middle of the night, sit by the stone and howl.
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Christopher is 6'2", a bit more muscular than Jack at 180 pounds, with long dark brown hair (almost black, but with a little bit of grey) and a goatee. He has more earrings and has a bit more of a bad-boy look to him; in some ways he looks a bit like Jack's evil twin.
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Twenty years ago, Christopher Polaris Wolfe came home to the commune and farm in Waterbury, Vermont that the Wolfes called home along with several other families. He was seventeen years old, and he had been on a bender with some friends from school. Instead of being falling-down drunk, though, he was higher than a kite on LSD and cocaine, and as he came into the living room where his parents, two aunts, an uncle, and a cousin sat, he drew a pistol.
“All of you are possessed!” he screamed, “and I’m going to make sure that none of you get out of this room alive to hurt anybody else.” The drugs had made Chris psychotically paranoid, and the fourteen-year-old Jack had, of course, crept down the hall to investigate what was going on. He could barely see his brother’s face, covered in sweat, hands shaking as they clutched the gun, eyes blank and unfeeling. He could have called the police, but one officer in rural Vermont would have taken an hour to get there on his own, no such thing as a negotiating team for hours around. Jack went to his parents’ bedroom and got his father’s hunting rifle from the closet, and loaded it, swearing to himself that he would only shoot if Chris aimed at a person and looked as if he was going to fire.
By the time he got back down the hall, Chris had gone from being wild to eerily calm, slowly turning to each person in the room, calling them by name and telling them what devil he perceived in them. For the better part of an hour, this continued until his aunt Betty begged him to let them go. Chris raised the gun again, aimed it, and cried out one word:
“Die!”
Chris’ finger didn’t get the chance to pull the trigger. Jack fired the hunting rifle, not at Chris but at the gun, trying to shoot it from his brother’s hand. But the noise of the rifle being shot made Chris lunge forward, and instead of hitting the gun, it went into the young man’s side, the large round going through one of the great vessels that lead from the heart and causing him to bleed to death in a matter of seconds. The police were called, the whole family was questioned at length, but Jack could not be found.
In a field not far from the house, a large golden wolf lay crying. Having had no idea that he was a kind of werewolf, the stress of the whole situation had forced Jack into his first shift, which was painful and traumatic. A few hours later he was able to summon the strength to shift back, after which various investigators were called in with expertise in the paranormal. Jack was found to have acted in self-defense and defense of six of his family members, and after a few days in a mental health facility being evaluated, he was released with no stain on his record. Everybody who lived in the commune considered Jack a hero for saving so many people, and eventually Jack started to think the same of himself, but there was a lot he had to sort out. He knew that he had killed his older brother, a brother who had always been good to him until that night that he’d just snapped. The toxicology report showed several different drugs in his system and there was little doubt as to the cause of his psychotic break.
Chris was buried in the town cemetery, and on his own birthday, Jack made a pilgrimage every year to visit the grave, put flowers there, and cry. When he got there, the guilt was overwhelming, and for several years Jack would go in wolf form in the middle of the night, sit by the stone and howl.
=====
Christopher is 6'2", a bit more muscular than Jack at 180 pounds, with long dark brown hair (almost black, but with a little bit of grey) and a goatee. He has more earrings and has a bit more of a bad-boy look to him; in some ways he looks a bit like Jack's evil twin.