In the pitch darkness of the early morn, standing against the backdrop of the inky-black sea, Fenrir watched and waited. His plane had touched down sometime in the early evening, and he had come here as soon as the sun had fully set. His journey to America had been... less than pleasant. Airplanes gave him an unbelievable amount of anxiety; something about being trapped in an airtight container with dozens of other people, thousands of miles in the air for hours on end did not agree with him. Security had been utter suffering to go through; people of Fenrir's description set off quite a few red flags when trying to board planes, as it turned out. However, the greatest struggle had been his decision whether or not to show up at all. What was he to make of a mysterious letter from an American, somehow tracking him down as he hid out in the Bavarian backwoods? In his experience, situations like these were almost always traps. Never once had anyone genuinely offered to help him; not without asking something in exchange, at least.

Still, the plane ticket to America seemed legitimate. It was a place that had always interested Fenrir, and he could use the change in scenery. Europe, though a big place, was beginning to shrink under his feet. The old castles and forests no longer sheltered him as they once did, and the remaining supernaturals looked after their own kin and none else. Hardly hospitable for a kinless outcast such as Fenrir. He arrived at the rendezvous point well ahead of everyone else, and scouted it from a distance. His senses were sharp enough that he would know all that went on at the meeting, without being anywhere near it. Fenrir had no thought that he would be spotted; he was a shadow in the cover of night. Night was home to him, it was mother and father at once, it would not betray him to these daywalkers that merely waded in its shallows.

Surprisingly, they started to arrive. By ones and twos they appeared, speaking of strange things and smelling of stranger things. These were scents he knew of only vaguely, the strange smells sometimes carried by the hunters came to claim Fenrir's hide. Far from the blood-smell of vampires, or the earth-smell of werewolves. Stranger scents arrived; the deep Umbra, the Twilight of spirits, the Gauntlet between worlds. Many were present, and the hour of meeting had already come and gone without much discussion. Were they still waiting on him? Fenrir decided to roll the dice; if this was still a trap, he was sure that he could fight his way out against this collection of oddities. Escape at the very least.

Fenrir approached the group slowly, emerging from the shadows like a beast from a dark wood. Despite his massive frame and his mud-caked workman's boots, his footsteps made no sounds against the creaking boards of the pier. He towered well above all others present, standing tall and straight like a god walking among men. Even so, glorious and divine he was not. Boot-cut jeans and an old military jacket over a dirty, sand-colored shirt were the best vestments that Fenrir had available. He honestly didn't remember the last time he had bathed; mud and dust covered him in various overlapping layers, and his blond hair was stringy and matted. A powerful musk surrounded him, a smell something like blood, something like sex, much like the deep woods, and even more like a wet dog. Fenrir said nothing, coolly eyeing the others present. His steel-blue gaze would occasionally catch the light in such a way that they shined with unearthly light; the eyes of a monster, rather than the eyes of a man.