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It began a long, long time ago, in the outskirts of a village not far from you... Where Syf was a travelling performer, a member of a well-respected group of entertainers where he learned not only to play instruments, to sing and dance, but stories, history and politics. He was even married to the love of his life, a woman who was not only smarter, more talented, but bested him at everything they competed in. But lo, life would not always be so storybook for Syf. No, not at all. For one day, the group finally made it big! They were to perform for a week at a neighboring duchy for the Duke and Duchess themselves. They would know dockside taverns, penny-pincher merchants and low-born nobles no more. They would lounge in leisure from this day forward, only accepting the best of the best contracts.

They arrived in their wagons and were greeted warmly by the masses, then brought by armed-escort (can you believe it, they had guards, their own protection!) all the way up to the castle itself where they were given luxurious rooms to rest and practice their craft before their performances. All was as it should be and the week went by with little incident, save for a lord or two trying to get frisky with one of the female performers. On the final eve of their performance, one such lord, the Duke himself, decided he was to take Syf's wife as a his own before the company made part. Of course, Syf's wife Beatrice was a strong, prideful woman. She would not be taken as a trophy. The performers scurried her out of the city, most staying behind to ensure her and Syf's swift departure.

They survived three long, restless days in the surrounding countryside. Every moment the sound of hounds barking, men clattering through the brush, and cursing their ever-present companion as they tried to evade the sizeable force that sought to reclaim their lord's prize. They were not survivalists, nor were they well-versed in covering their tracks. They were assuredly found, and after Syf killed two of the soldiers, restrained and separated.

Syf had little time to mourn... to plan his escape to save his wife, for he was hastily given over to the Duke's slavers who ran a Duke-sanctioned fighting arena. He found himself fighting to the death at least once every day, leaving him bruised, battered and broken. But alas, his will to live, his desire to rescue his wife at all costs kept him alive. Kept him killing every person that opposed him in that arena. When, after a particularly nasty fight that he almost lost, the slaver master came to him with a proposition. "Should you take the curse, you will live and maybe long enough to save your wife." The slaver chuckled beneath his breath, greasy black hair sticking to his rosy, fat face.

Syf was turned by an ancient lycan, one that had been imprisoned some centuries before by the founding ancestor of the Duke. Syf's first full moon, he was greeted by a visitor who entered his cage. The beast hungered within him, the visitor smelled sweet, tasty. He devoured the fool, only later to find out that the visitor was in fact his wife, Beatrice. A sick joke played on him by the Duke himself. Syf raged. And Raged. RAGED.

His bloodlust knew no bounds after breaking free from his cell. The strength from the ancient strain afforded him a strength unknown to the slavers. He slaughtered everyone, anyone. If they still moved, he tore them apart further. He scaled the cities high walls, killing his way ever onwards until he eventually found the Duke and Duchess. The fight is not worth mentioning, for it was no fight, but a slaughter. Syf remained in this wolf-frenzy for days. Days turned into weeks, and then weeks to months and soon he had forgotten that he was not a wolf, but a man. As the years dragged on, he eventually lost sight of what it was that kept him going and he reverted to his old self. A human, stinking and broken. It was in these moments that he remembered who he was... and how his heart ached so.

The bottle is his only solace, his only salvation, now.

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