Fantasy RP Bound in Blood and Silver (Froshi)

[RhysTheFirebird]

Rowan Hale

Name: Rowan Hale
Age: 19–20
Sex/Gender: Male (he/him)
Race: Werewolf (Shifter-type)
Appearance: Rowan is on the smaller side for a werewolf, standing around 5'7"–5'8" with a lean, wiry build that favors speed over brute strength. He almost always keeps himself in a comfortable half-shifted state, sporting soft wolf ears atop his head and a fluffy, expressive tail that betrays his mood far more than his face ever does. Faint patches of fur dust his forearms, shoulders, and along his spine, blending seamlessly with his mostly human appearance. His amber-gold eyes carry a constant spark of mischief, glowing brighter when he’s excited or annoyed. He dresses casually—oversized hoodies, worn jeans, and sneakers or boots—often choosing clothes that hide his ears easily but allow room for his tail when he’s alone or among other supernaturals. He smells faintly of rain, warm fur, and pine.
Personality: Rowan is playful, bratty, and intentionally annoying when he’s comfortable around someone, often pushing boundaries just to see what kind of reaction he’ll get. He likes teasing, stealing food, invading personal space, and pretending not to take things seriously—though it’s usually an act. Beneath the childish behavior, he’s perceptive and emotionally sharp, picking up on moods and tensions long before they’re spoken aloud. When danger appears or someone he cares about is threatened, his demeanor snaps into something far more composed and mature, revealing a controlled, capable werewolf who knows exactly when to stop playing. He hates being underestimated and secretly enjoys proving people wrong.
Backstory: Born into a small, secretive pack that valued discipline and restraint, Rowan learned early how to control his shifting and instincts—but he never quite fit their expectations. While he mastered his abilities faster than most, his refusal to fully suppress his playful nature or submit blindly to hierarchy caused friction within the pack. Eventually, he left on his own terms, choosing independence over obedience. Now living quietly in the modern world, Rowan balances a mundane human-facing life with his hidden supernatural one, preferring to stay half-shifted whenever he can get away with it. Though he acts carefree, he’s careful about who he lets close, aware that pack bonds—once formed—are difficult to break.

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@Froshimaru

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Rowan knew the moment he crossed the line.

It wasn’t marked on any map, mortal or otherwise, but the air changed—thickened, sweetened with old stone and iron and something darkly elegant beneath it. Vampire territory always felt like that: manicured danger, velvet over fangs. He flicked an ear beneath his hood, tail swishing once in irritation.

He shouldn’t have been here.

But the scent trail was wrong.

Rowan crouched on the edge of a quiet city park, late enough that the human world had thinned to passing cars and distant sirens. The moon was high, not full—thankfully—but bright enough to cast silver shadows across the pavement. He let his half-shift settle fully into place: ears pricked, claws just beneath the skin, senses flaring.

The scent was fresh. Fear, blood, magic—wolf.

Young. Untrained. And hurt.

“Dammit,” Rowan muttered, already moving.

This was how he always got into trouble. He told himself he wasn’t pack anymore, that it wasn’t his responsibility—but wolves didn’t unlearn instincts just because they walked away. Someone had crossed into vampire land by accident, or been dragged here, and Rowan couldn’t ignore it. Not when he’d once been that reckless pup himself.

He followed the trail deeper than he meant to.

Streetlights gave way to wrought-iron fencing, then to old money architecture—stone facades, quiet courtyards, buildings that had stood long before the city grew around them. His ears flattened. Every step screamed leave, but his feet kept going. Bratty defiance, he’d always been told. The need to prove he could handle it.

The scent cut off abruptly.

Rowan slowed.

Too quiet.

He spun just in time to avoid the first strike—barely. A blur of movement, inhumanly fast, slammed him into a brick wall. The impact rattled his teeth. He snarled, claws flashing as he twisted, tail lashing wildly—

Silver burned.

A sharp, choking sound tore out of him as something snapped closed around his wrist. Not a blade. Cuffs. Inlaid with silver filigree so fine it looked decorative until it sank into his skin. Another hit followed, then another—precise, practiced, overwhelming.

“Easy,” a voice murmured close to his ear, cultured and amused. “Don’t damage him.”

Rowan fought anyway. He always did.

He kicked, bit, snapped—caught fabric and flesh with his teeth, earning a sharp hiss from someone he didn’t see. But there were too many of them. Vampire hands pinned him down, movements smooth and coordinated, like they’d done this a hundred times before. A second set of cuffs snapped around his ankles. A collar followed—silver again, humming faintly with suppressive magic.

The moment it locked, the world dulled.

His ears drooped involuntarily. His strength bled away like water through his fingers, leaving him breathless and shaking, half-shifted body struggling to stay upright.

“Well,” another voice said lightly, female this time. “He’s cute.”

Rowan bared his teeth weakly. “Bite me.”

Laughter. Soft, refined. Cruel.

They didn’t kill him. That was the first thing that truly scared him.

Instead, they cleaned him.

Not gently—but thoroughly. Blood wiped away. Fur brushed smooth. The cuffs remained, the collar humming low and constant. By the time they finished, Rowan was dressed in unfamiliar clothes—soft, expensive fabric that didn’t quite hide his tail, or the way his ears twitched with every sound.

He was escorted, not dragged, through the inner halls of an estate that felt less like a home and more like a museum still very much alive. Marble floors. Oil paintings that watched. Chandeliers glowing with warm, golden light. The scent of wealth clung to the air—old money, old power.

Rowan’s heart thudded painfully as massive doors were pushed open.

“Lord,” one of the vampires announced smoothly, bowing. “We found this one trespassing along the western boundary.”

Rowan lifted his head despite himself.

The room beyond was vast and elegant, all dark wood and velvet shadows, the kind of place built to impress without trying. His tail flicked once, betraying nerves he refused to show. His ears stayed half-flattened, half-alert—defiant even now.

“He was following a wolf scent,” the vampire continued. “Likely packless. Skilled shifter. Difficult to subdue.”

A pause.

“And,” another added with a faint smile, “he seems… spirited.”

Rowan swallowed, then straightened as much as the cuffs allowed, amber eyes bright despite the fear curling in his chest.

“I wasn’t stealing anything,” he said quickly, then scowled. “And I don’t fetch.”

The vampires exchanged amused glances.

One hand pressed lightly between his shoulder blades—not forcing, but guiding—and Rowan was nudged forward, placed squarely before the clan leader like an offering wrapped in silk and silver.

“A stray,” the first vampire said pleasantly. “But a valuable one.”

Rowan’s tail lashed once, ears twitching as he looked up at the Lord—trying to read him, scent him, understand what kind of monster ruled a house like this.

He lifted his chin, brattiness flickering back into place like armor.

 

[Froshimaru]

Vincent didn't look up immediately.

He was standing near the window when they brought the wolf in, one hand loosely holding a glass of something dark that wasn't wine. The city sprawled below, all glittering lights and oblivious motion. He'd been watching it for the better part of an hour, thoughts elsewhere, when the doors opened behind him.

"Lord," came the announcement, too formal as always. He never asked them to call him that. They did it anyway.

He turned slowly, taking in the scene with practiced disinterest.

The wolf was young. That was the first thing he noticed. Mid-twenties maybe, if he'd been human when he turned, though with shifters it was hard to tell. Dark hair, amber eyes that tracked every movement in the room despite the obvious exhaustion pulling at his frame. The cuffs caught the light, silver filigree gleaming against his wrists and ankles. The collar sat snug around his throat, faintly humming with suppression magic.

Vincent's jaw tightened.

"Trespassing," one of his people explained, like that justified the restraints. "Following a scent into our territory. Packless, we think. Put up quite a fight."

The wolf's tail lashed, ears flicking back in irritation. His chin lifted despite everything, that flicker of defiance almost admirable under the circumstances.

Vincent didn't respond right away. He set the glass down on the nearest table and crossed the room in a few unhurried steps, stopping just outside the wolf's immediate space. Close enough to see the way his breathing hitched, the subtle tremble in his hands that the bravado couldn't quite hide.

"A gift," one of them said pleasantly. "We thought you might find him... useful."

Vincent's gaze flicked sideways, cold enough to cut the smile off the speaker's face.

"I didn't ask for a gift," he said quietly. "And I certainly didn't ask for you to drag someone through my home in silver."

Silence dropped like a stone.

 

[RhysTheFirebird]

Rowan stayed upright anyway, ears twitching despite himself, tail lashing once before curling tight behind his leg. Vincent stood close—close enough that Rowan could feel the weight of his attention without him ever touching him.

“He crossed the boundary,” one of the vampires said carefully, the earlier confidence gone. “Deep into our territory. No pack markers. No escort.”

Rowan snorted. “Wasn’t sightseeing.”

A warning hand pressed into his shoulder, but he shook it off as much as the restraints allowed. His amber eyes flicked back to Vincent, sharp despite the exhaustion pulling at him.

“I was tracking a younger wolf,” Rowan said. “Hurt. Scared.”

“That’s unconfirmed,” another vampire cut in coolly. “What is confirmed is that this one is unclaimed. Packless shifters are a risk.”

“And a resource,” someone added.

Rowan’s ears flattened at that. “Funny way to say kidnapped."

The grip on him tightened; silver bit closer to skin. He hissed, then went still, jaw clenched. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter—but no less defiant.