Humanity views werewolves as though to be ferocious creatures of the night. Those allegations include the part where werewolves treat the homes of families as hunting grounds. They eat the adults and steal the babies from cribs as a midnight snack. The only reason humans don't go looking for werewolves is because they have this preconceived notion that they never existed in the first place. Just a mother's tale to make the wee ones stay inside when it gets dark.

Humans survive on stereotypes. If a human ever meets a werewolf, they will scratch their heads in confusion. Werewolves are a race born with the trait to transform into a wolf. The purer the bloodline, the more their transformation looks like a wolf. The more diluted the bloodline, the less they look like wolves. The hybrids look like the beastly figures in all the fairytales which is a chaotic mix between human and werewolf traits. Their long muzzles are equipped with one row of long fangs that can tear limbs and break bones, and furry humanoid bodies with very long claws and wolf hind quarters for legs. Even the hybrid’s human form suffers normalcy and have either a wolf tail or wolf ears. Although none of these werewolf packs are rampaging or uncivilized; they are all forced to live in high secrecy no matter the nation. A lot of them either chose the lifestyle of a human or the lifestyle of a wolf. There is no safe place for a werewolf, only unleashing their beastly side in the wilderness. The werewolf packs are now constantly being mistaken as Bigfoot, yetis or even-insultingly- bears.

One of these nations is the great land of Northern Ireland, with lush greenery and woods enormous enough to shroud a few packs. Even with the rise of innovative technology being the year 1995, their existence is merely folklore at best. Drunken stories if anything.

Stories that a certain red-haired female with glittering yellow eyes eavesdrop on. Friends and family call her Idonea or Nea. Her simple small blue T-shirt with the logo of the Fish Trawling company she works at, 'Gregar's Best', barely fit her muscular form. The sleeves of her shirt clench her broad biceps, suggesting that she needs to find a larger size soon.

That never works. She relishes the day she will find the proper size that won't make her look like a potato sack. And a potato sack she will look like, especially when her waist is smaller compared to the wide setting of her hips and thighs. At least pants are a lot easier to get, she is always stuck with cargo pants of the same black color since she loves to keep her style simple. With boots that are just as black as her pants to destroy the last bit of her femininity.

Often, her attire attracts the wrong side of attention. With an uprising of homophobia, the people here think of her as what they term a 'dyke'. It took some time to understand the term, and this misconception of her looking more male when in reality she didn’t care about her appearance. 

In fact, her shoulder-length wavy hair is always kept in a ponytail. However, the few people that talk to her will comment that her face is attractive despite the permanent scowl. She had high cheekbones, with smooth tan skin from working outside, trim eyebrows, and plump pink lips. 

Now back to her eavesdropping. The two drunken males loudly muttering are the ons she listens on while drinking her usual Kilkenny Irish Cream Ale. So far, she had down about six of them with no adverse effects, asking herself for the hundredth time what is even the point of wasting the money. Because it tastes good.

Her jeweled ear perks up at the drunken conversation. Having no other forms of entertainment, she can’t help it. She watches the males from the corner of her eye, making sure to feign indifference every few seconds.

One of them looks like they had just got out of work from the office, a loose tie around his neck and a dress jacket is strewn on the back of his seat. He is helping himself with a lot of nuts and hard scotch.

"Me mum used to tell me that werewolves have bloodshot eyes and stinky maw that reeks of death-" The other male, a seafarer by the looks of it, is so red in his face he might pass out. He wears a comical yellow fishing hat used to protect him from both sun and rain. Mostly rain because this is Northern Ireland...

"Bah! You keep telling me stories about werewolves! Tell me something new old…"-The businessman takes on a couple of mouthfuls of nuts before finishing- “…friend."

They were terrible stories anyway. She snorts under her breath, attracting the bartender's attention. When the bartender asks what is wrong, she shakes her head and waves him away. It's better that she kept herself on her lonesome instead. She never finds solace in any of their company. After all, she is not human but a werewolf. The very same werewolves that the seafarer talked about constantly. The bartender heeds her wave, making a small comment beneath his bearded breath. The words that follow after show what this town truly sees of her, "What a weird loner..."

It has gotten hard to ignore such comments with ears as sharp as her own, all she can do is distract herself with the idle conversation between the two blokes.

"That's because me own brother saw one snatch his sheep up north. Nasty buggers." The seafarer exclaims but when his friend only shoots him with a disbelief expression despite the full cheeks, the seafarer caves. "Fine! I'll talk about something else."

"Thank you!” Sighs the middle-aged businessman.

Thank you, she thought to herself, relieve that she didn't have to sit through another terrible retelling of a werewolf. These humans never get their description right, even after so many years. Her lifetime is older than Ireland's existence and they still don't know how to get her kind right.

The seafarer takes his shiny hat off, exposing his receding white hairline that matches his very long beard. He leans in with a deep frown, "There is this strange seal...One that keeps stealin' everyone's fish."

Idonea nearly drops her mug of beer, the mention of a fish stealing seal reminds her of a couple of occurrences a month ago while trawling with her crew.

A large harbor seal gets caught in their net and ate a sizable portion of their catch. This seal was oddly large for its species, and the marks of its body made it stand out from the rest. Silvery white wet fur with blotches of black more prominent around its muzzle and it vanish the further down her eyes scanned its body. Flippers as dark as the sea and a very prominent white belly, button eyes that are more purple than black. Such a strange looking seal, but at the time she was more focused on getting rid of it than deciphered what she seen. That damn thing doesn’t even slow down its feast when she prodded it with a poker. None of the humane methods worked. The only time it moved was when one of her crewmates threatened to shoot it with a pistol. The way it watched the pistol, frozen in place, made her empathetic towards the beast. It was smart enough to understand that it was in danger, and she was too kindhearted to allow her crewmates to shoot. She stopped her crewmates. Thankfully, this stirred this beast to move on eventually. And since then, she has only seen remnants of the seal's activities. They still lost some fish here and there, but it never got caught again.

Her memory of the beast causes her a few mix feelings. Being a beast like herself and ostracize by society causes her to feel more empathetic than she should be. Though she remembers getting her ass chewed by her boss for it and it brought on some feelings of rage too. After all, her boss did dock her pay for the minor mutiny. She chugs the rest of her drink, demanding more once done. Her anger gets the better of her and deepens the scowl on her face. It's not like the damn thing will ever show gratitude for saving it.

"Yeah, so what?" The businessman chews on the nuts and swallows, only stuffing more in his mouth like a chipmunk. “Seals eat fish."

"It's not just that... This seal knows the ins and outs of this harbor and even waits till everyone is preoccupied to thieve on everyone's haul." He lowers his voice to a whisper; she can still hear it with her enhanced ears. "I witnessed its thievery meself. Damn thing swam off with a bucket load of me best pollack. Then the next day I found the bucket back on me stall with no fish. Its behavior and intelligence are so strange...this one might be a selkie."

Selkies…Seriously? Her face contorts, fighting down a laugh. Although she is a mythical creature, selkies are far more unlikely to exist. At least with her kind she had an evolutionary trait that happened due to isolation in a forest, as some of the more knowledgeable wolves would claim. A being that takes the form of a selkie by wearing the skin of it is as far-fetched as aliens. If they ever existed, she'd be the first were-person to know.

Pure crazy talk.

"Stop pulling my chain, Alf." His friend stops his drunken munching just to glare at him. ,"You mark all your equipment with your name and address...even spoons if you could. Someone must have just found it and properly returned it, you drunk."

"Hmph!" The seafarer sat straight up then, turning his bearded face away like a child.

Idonea gulps another mouthful of beer to try to ease her annoyance. This kind of lying always irks the rather serious she-wolf, it wastes her precious ears and time when she can focus her attention on what's on the tube instead. Of course, she changes her opinion when the businessman starts speaking again.

"Well, at least our town's star is coming back from vacation..."

Her heart thumps hard, very aware of who he is talking about. There aren't many stars that resonate in this harbor town except this one. A man by the name of Leasdich Brennan or, better yet, the Soothsayer of Kilkeel. He had his own radio station that a lot of sea voyagers will tune in to during their voyages. Every chance she gets, she follows his broadcast. His voice is always so angelic, even through the haze of radio static. He also had incredibly good taste in music, and many times he had composed his own songs and then quickly share them with the masses. Not one of his songs lacks in quality even when he had his hands full staffing this radio station on his own. He is a singular musician, often singing the music of either happiness or sadness. When he plays, he sounds like he is trying to reach out to someone. Talented and highly praised, it is odd that he hadn't pursued higher stardom and kept his likeness a mystery. He made an excuse that his family lives on an island and he had obligations to see them every now and then. Idonea had been a residence in Kilkeel for seven years. Twice had this man vanish in that timeline, each one six months long. Her fanatic side wishes she'd run into the mystery radio soothsayer, but every time she tries it is like chasing her own shadow. He is better at keeping his whereabouts hidden as good as her keeping her werewolf lineage a secret.

"Oh. Better tune in tomorrow morn then! He never misses a morning when he is back!"

She checks the watch on her wrist and nearly chokes on the swill. It's already two in the morning. And the radio broadcast at five. She can't stay here. She hurriedly pays the bartender with cash and rushes right out. Not even finishing the last beer she brought. It isn't worth it if none of it can get her drunk. 

Again, she catches someone saying, "That lass is always on her own, you know..."

This did make her shoulders tense just a fraction, but she decides there is no point in finding any of that offensive. This is the life she wants most.

Her boots thuds right out the door of "Sweaty Joey" pub, exposing herself to the dreary cloudy night that it is. Thankfully, the town made sure to invest in some overhanging lights. But even those are hardly helpful with this thick mist. Her yellow eyes adjust in the mist, finding her way through its streets. She follows along the pier since it is dark. The ocean is as dark as the clouds, only glittering when some lights reflect off it. For what it is worth, this is a nice night for Northern Ireland. The chill in the air reminds her that it is the end of fishing season, which meant more time for herself. Perfect!

Her werewolf traits give her some tolerance for Ireland's cold, dreary weather. She enjoys it. Whenever this place snows heavily, she'd let her wolf side out and traverse the woodlands freely. Nobody here is out unless they are hunters, not a common profession for a seaport. Another integral trait for a wolf like herself is her very keen sense of smell. So great that she can tell when the proceeds go bad before anyone else. Though the stench of fish did take some time for her to get used to, she now likes the smell of it while it is still fresh. 

Werewolves can't be picky. She thinks pragmatically. Her fists shoves in her pockets to keep them from the chill. She wishes to change into her wolf form here. That way it wont take so long to get to her apartment. Ireland didn’t have native wolves. The last one was killed off over 300 years ago. She will cause chaos if she turns into one now, so she settles with just her human legs power walking the streets. The further she walks, the lonelier the night felt. It is so late that nobody is up to see her. A single female might be in danger under these circumstances, but she isn’t weary. Her greatest strength is that her strength. She can easily overpower any giant male.

Her old pack mates would gripe that she was too rough in their sparring. She finds that no one can realistically take her on, that was enough of an excuse to leave the annoying pack, but it wasn’t the only reason. Her pack matriarch would press her to get a mate and sire more purebreds as an attempt to return the werewolves of the past. The same wolves that can commune with humans since hybrids had a harder time with their wolfish features showing no matter how hard they try to shift. The pressure annoyed her so much that anyone that dared to come up to her to form a mate pact was met with fists instead.

Bastards. Her sour mood returns full force on her face, even letting out a small guttural growl in her chest. It had been a while since she last saw her pack. Thankfully because they don't travel outside Sweden. 

Then a sweet scent invades her nostrils, one that distracts her enough from walking. The scent tickles something primal in her brain. One so underused that when she felt it, it courses through her body and reverse her common sense. This scent is like a drug; it is as intense as fireworks. Bringing on a new interest that she didn't understand entirely...