An animal is an animal. A wolf is an animal. A man is an animal. What is the wolf’s and the man’s biggest difference? They’re different animals. So what does that make a werewolf? An animal, nonetheless, but perhaps both. People often forget the little things like that. A psychopath breaks into the apartment of a total stranger, ties the man up and shoots him because he—quote—wanted to know what it felt like. Then the TV show writer or journalist goes ahead and peppers the piece with words like “savage,” “wild,” and—his favourite—“animalistic.” What bullshit. There is no such thing as wild animal that kills for the thrill of watching someone die. Why does the stereotype of the animalistic killer persist? Because humans like it. It explains things for them, moving mankind to the top of the evolutionary ladder and putting killers down among mythological monsters like werewolves. The truth is, if a werewolf behaves like a psychopath it wouldn’t be because he was part animal, but because he was still too human. Only humans kill for sport. Jethro knows this closely. A wild animal will only kill for three reasons: food, territory, and survival. Jethro remembers the firm nod of his father, who was being dragged away. That was a hard task: it took eight men to do it, for his father had been a strong man, but they did manage it. Jethro watched him go further and further out of sight, but he still caught his last words through telepathy: “I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself.” It was one of the most awful moments in his whole life, but on the other hand, there was a wildness inside of him that responded, that knew it was right. That there was never room to feel sorry for himself. There was so much left for him to learn, but that was enough to last forever. I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself.
It’s no secret to anyone that the modern world is considered cruel and unfair, but that’s only because they have only heard stories about the past, they had never actually lived it. Jethro, however, was there through most of the difficult times, and he could tell you that the world today is as good as it gets, despite all the shit in it. Jethro comes from an ancient ancestry of lycanthropes; his great-great-whatever grandparents were the first Africans infected with Lycanthropy, and wandered the corners of the country long before the first Europeans came. They fought many battles, waged wars countless times in ways that’ll provoke the hesitance of even the Magnum Malum Lupis, and by way of countless lives lost throughout the centuries they earned their right to call a place their home and never leave it. Even now competitors keep their distance from the wolves of the Vervloek Nyl Pack (VNP), lest they light the flames of war and cause further bloodshed; because these wolves know not to stop until their enemies have all fallen or they have. But despite being born into such a proud and feared clan, Jethro never experienced it. Never knew it. Before anything else, he was a runt, a victim, and above all, a slave. Because back in the day, that’s all he was, and all others saw when they looked at him. Those with darker skin were considered to be less than, and since they didn’t have a voice that people believed was meant to be heard, they were treated like cattle, but since every time someone tried to escape or make themselves be noticed, they were punished severely or killed. So being an orphaned slave in the 1700’s was hard enough, and being a werewolf made it much harder. Having to learn to hide his lycanthropy, particularly when he was still trying to control it, constantly made Jethro—who was born with a different name, but would never reveal that—feel weak. And weakness was not an emotion that he welcomed.
His earliest memories are watching those he cared for having that end to their lives, but some would tell him they would do anything to not have to live like cattle anymore. Some would consider themselves lucky to killed, even. That at least would mean that they would be in peace, somewhere. Putting it lightly, Jethro didn’t want that peace in death. Even so young, he understood dying over his freedom was better than dying as someone else’s slave. A wolf doesn’t live to serve lazy fuckers who believe they are the master race. He knows firsthand what it felt like to be second behind some pretty little white boy, and there was a fire in him because of it. It was the kind of flame that flickered and burned a little brighter each time he was humiliated and degraded. A werewolf is a wild thing that can’t be tied down, the best one can do is leave it be in its captivity. Even that’s wishful thinking. After one particular whipping, something snapped inside and he was never the same person again. If they wouldn’t set him free, he would take his way out: he had to use his human side as well as his beast side. Jethro had to recall that opposable thumbs and foresight and education are as handy his as fangs, claws, and instincts. All Jethro knows about control, he taught himself. He contorted his bones, his muscles, squeezed. He picked and pried at locks with what he could find. He hid his progress and feigned hopelessness. Until that first night he changed without the full moon. Able to control the shift during different moon phases, he could to move and hide in ways no one could figure out, and soon he was running free under the Mississippi skyline. Running towards Freeland, towards his freedom, towards his peace, and hoping they would never catch him, until the 13th amendment confirmed they never will. In 1864, all of them were free.
After that, it was hard to know what to do. There was unimaginable pleasure in fighting in the Civil War, to eradicate those that wished to keep them from their rightful place, and would leave a trail of Southerner’s in his wake. The end of the war was bittersweet: he was thankful to be a freeman, but understood that the war only prevented the African Americans from being slaves. They were still subjected to hatred from the privileged whites on the daily—north and south—and had few rights on top of that (time would solve that problem). So, there was no relief back home. He became a vagrant, running into other supernaturals and even some Red Hoods, but never staying in one city for long until Yellowknife almost eight years ago, where he ran into a vicious member of the Magnum Malum Lupis. Like fellow packmate Isaiah Powell, joining wasn’t intentional, but after a few moments of being the victim of foul comments, Jethro could see nothing but red. Furious to the point of murder, the kill was neat and swift only because his opponent didn’t deserve the dignity of defending himself: he grabbed a firm hold on his adversary’s ruff and leaped over his back, and the wolf’s head twisted impossibly with a single pop! (How easy it was, like killing chicken for Sunday dinner.) The ritual battle was over as soon as it began, and he’s been with the MML ever since. He took over in all of the previous member’s actions: he replaced their old Sentinel, did his patrols, defended their territory, and defended them, even if he had to bitch slap a mate in line for his Alpha. And that’s how he found himself in Bindlebrim Hallows, painfully aware of the inner-power struggle for Alpha. Jethro’s always preferred to keep his head low and out of the politics, but with the budding threat of Red Hoods and knowing the Kovar siblings aren’t the only wolves looking to be the Alpha, Jethro feels it’s time to intervene.