[i][center][color=8882be][h1]  ༒ ༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻ Kaelen Moros ༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻ ༒ [/h1][/color][/center][/i]
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[color=0054a6]"Thank you for that, they... seem to fade more with good fellows around."[/color]

Kaelen offered Vitek a subtle, understanding nod, his sharp features softening just a fraction at the fellow lycan's words. Deep down, he'd always clung to the belief that solitude was his safest harbour—a fortress against the chaos of connection. In that isolation, he reasoned, no one could wound him further, and more importantly, he couldn't inflict pain on others. The scars of his past, both literal and unseen, had etched that lesson into his very bones. But here, seated beside Vitek in the dimly lit warmth of this Parisian tavern, surrounded by the subtle hum of pack camaraderie, he had to admit a grudging truth: it felt... right. For the first time in years, the weight of loneliness lifted, replaced by the quiet thrill of belonging. He wasn't just another rogue wolf anymore; he was part of something larger, a brotherhood of kindred spirits who shared his blood, his instincts, his laughter, and even his battles. The Parisian Pack had opened its arms, and though he hadn't fully let his guard down, the acceptance warmed him like a rare Parisian sun breaking through the clouds.

He dipped his head politely toward the barkeep as the man announced that their food wouldn't be long in coming. The promise of a hearty meal stirred a flicker of anticipation in Kaelen's gut—good, because restlessness was already gnawing at him. But then Vitek's next words hit him like a punch to the ribs, nearly making him choke on his own breath. A story? Him? Kaelen wasn't a bard or a fireside raconteur; he was a fighter, a survivor, words twisting awkwardly in his throat like thorns. His mother had never spun tales of wonder for him—instead, his life had been a relentless grind of hardship and shadows, a hellscape he preferred to bury deep. Talking about his past? That was a door best left bolted shut, lest the demons claw their way out. He swallowed hard, forcing a nod as he scrambled to conjure something—anything—worth sharing. Maybe a tale of a hunt gone wrong, or a skirmish with rival packs, something light enough to deflect the weight of his history. No, no, couldn't be anything to let the humans on. Fucking hell.

His reverie shattered as the barkeep ambled back, balancing a tray laden with bottles that gleamed under the tavern's flickering lanterns. Kaelen flashed a sly, lazy grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He knew he should steer clear of the drink; a hangover tomorrow would leave him sluggish, his senses dulled, and that was a risk he couldn't afford in their unpredictable world. But tonight? Tonight, the mood had him. No urgent missions loomed, no alphas barking orders, no shadows of old enemies creeping at the edges. Why not indulge? He tilted his head toward the array of bottles, his voice carrying a rough edge of mischief as he pointed to the one that promised the most potent kick—the kind that burned like wildfire down the throat. [color=8493ca]"Whichever one's gonna have my friend here hauling my sorry, drunken ass outta this bar like a sack of potatoes,"[/color] he chimed, shooting Vitek a wicked, lopsided grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. The challenge hung in the air, laced with the unspoken bond of packmates ready to embrace the night.