Dante Hawthorne - Werewolf

[Dante Hawthorne]

+Character Name: Dante Hawthorne
+Age: 26
+Gender: Male
+Race: Werewolf
+Sexuality: Positively straight

Born into a pack far north of the United States, in Iceland, his life was anything but normal besides the fact of being a lycan. At the age of seven, he witnessed the slow slaughter of his parents and younger brother; watched as they were ripped apart. It was punishment for his parents eloping and conceiving two children against pack laws, especially between two packs whom were supposed to despise each other. Every tear, every scream, every sickening cackle made that torturous night, echoes in his mind. The images replay in his frequent nightmares, plaguing him each and every time he falls asleep. For a few years, he ran, and ran, and ran some more as it was all that he could do; he had no way to protect himself.

His running was put to a halt when a small family vacationing in the mountains stumbled upon the dirtied and frightened child who didn't speak a lick of English. Being sympathetic towards young Dante, they brought him back home with them. He learned their human ways as if it was natural for him, they accepted him as one of their own. The young lad even had a few other children to socialize with who also accepted him as their brother. All seemed... Fine. But when he reached the age where he would first shift, once more did he lose yet another family. It wasn't like Dante had any control over his morphing, or the actions that followed; he never meant to cause the harm that he did. He was just... just so hungry... It was easy disposing them, such helpless humans, helpless tasty humans.

Twelve years have passed since then...

A few things have changed with the lad though he has never stopped running for his life. No where has seemed safe enough. But now, anger has swelled within him, the taste for revenge growing stronger and stronger each day. What he now desires is a pack, one to lead him into victory dare his old pack find him, and one for the sake of having one. Dante has hesitance though, that fear that was instilled into him as a child still thrives within him. All and all, aside from his unfortunate past, Dante is a gentle soul to those he holds dear, loyal right down to his very core, but is nonetheless vicious when provoked. He doesn't trust others so easily at first so if you seek friendship with this young male it will take time.

Dante is your average guy as far as attitude goes, he is nothing special. While most guys his age would rather keep their hair short and obsess over fitness, he is quite the opposite. His locks are dark and long, hiding most of his pale complexion and features and his icy hued orbs. If his father were alive today, the two would look nearly identical all except for the eyes, Dante has his mother's eyes. As far as muscle goes, he is average, not too buff but has enough muscle to grab a girl's attention and defend himself. But the boy sure can run, it makes up for what he lacks in brute strength, as he has been running his whole life it is kinda expected.

Oh and by the way, ladies beware, you're dealing with a player here.


+Example Post
Panic. Fear. Heck, you could say he was down right ready to need a change of pants. They were closing in and he knew it. Tripping over his own feet as he crashed through the thick undergrowth, Dante fell though quickly picked himself up and didn't stop sprinting. They had found him once more and it wasn't like he could take on a whole squad by himself so all he could possibly do was retreat like the coward he was. Frantically did he search for a way to lose them, anything would do at the moment, anything at all. His lungs felt as if they were going to explode at any moment and even though he knew they would be on him quick he had to take a few seconds to rest. A large oak tree seemed fit and the scrawny lycan made a mad dash behind it and slipped once more. It wasn't the best place to rest but it would give him a few moments to collect himself; to catch his breath."Móðir, faðir, vernda mig.." The Hawthorn lad whispered the Icelandic phrase to himself, gazing up through the tops of the trees to the star-lit sky above.

Dante's chest rose and fell quickly and he tried to gain his breath again, his magnificent blue orbs wide with fright. Hesitantly did he peer around the massive tree into the dark woods and searched for any sign of movement, keeping his ears out for any rustle or snap of jaws. All was dead quiet. Nothing stirred from the forest, not a hoot of an owl nor chatter of a raccoon. Silence... Eyes slipping closed, he brought his head back and rested it against the hard bark, taking his time in catching his breath. Maybe he had lost them... Taking the time to wipe his sweat covered brow, his eyes flashed back open. A voice deep and laced with malice spoke to him, not even a foot in front of the male stood a shadow ridden figure, fangs glistening in the moonlight raining down between the holes in the canopy. Those fangs wrapped themselves around his throat and... A scream escaped him as he jumped up in bed, hands moving to his throat quickly as the horrid dream ended. No, nightmare. Dante's gaze scoured the dimly lit room, expecting someone to be there ready to jump him. As nothing seemed out of place and he felt safe again, or as safe as one could possibly feel in his situation, he flopped his back down on the bed with a sigh of relief."Im still not used to this..." He mumbled to himself, rubbing his weary eyes.