A historically Scottish and English name that generally means "wolf".

Height: 6'2"
Weight: 205 pounds
Hair Color: Dark brown to black
Eye Color: Appears dark brown
Build: Lean and muscular
Estimated Age Range: Mid-30's
Prefered Genre: Modern Fantasy

On the Methods, Tools, and Ruthless Practices.
Introduction & Classification
The one known as Lyall (categorized by hidden magical orders as Venator sanguinis arcana) is a solitary, highly lethal magic-hunter. Operating entirely outside the jurisdiction of the High Councils, Lyall specializes in the systematic tracking, subdual, and harvesting of magical beings. He is typically defined by an absolute lack of mercy, viewing magical creatures not as living entities, but as raw components to be bled for their volatile, power-infused essence.

The Hunter’s Panoply
Lyall's distinct hunting attire is entirely functional, designed to counter the abilities of the creatures he targets.

The Lupine Mask - Forged from hammered, anti-magical silver, this wolf-head visage protects the hunter from mental manipulation, illusions, and glamour spells cast by desperate prey. It also serves as a powerful psychological weapon, ensuring his face is the last, unreadable thing a target sees.

The Brocade - His heavy black doublet is embroidered with reinforced silver-threaded runes. These patterns absorb and disperse kinetic shockwaves and elemental elemental attacks, turning deadly magic into harmless light shows.

The Alchemical Vials - Hidden beneath his ornate cuffs are localized syphon needles and tempered glass vials, ready to drain and preserve magical blood at the precise moment of maximum potency.

Methodology & The Harvest
Lyall does not hunt for sport or territorial dominance, his motives are purely alchemical and pragmatic. Magical blood possesses unparalleled raw energy, which he extracts to fuel his own formidable sorcery.

The Tracking Phase
Utilizing specialized divination spells that detect the unique "hum" of magical mana, The Lyall can trace a creature across continents. He is known to wait weeks in complete silence, studying a creature's migration patterns, weaknesses, and seasonal vulnerabilities before striking.

Execution without Quarter
When the trap is sprung, the hunt is brief and clinical. Lyall utilizes specialized suppression that neutralize a creature's innate magical defenses, rendering them defenseless. Pleas for clemency, displays of high intelligence, or ancient pacts hold no weight with him. The harvest is executed with cold, mechanical precision, until he met her.

Recovered Journal Fragment
'We thought the old ruins were safe, but the Wolf came at midnight. He did not speak. He did not rage. When Teryn tried to bind him with thorn magic, the runes on his clothing simply swallowed the green light. I hid in the hollow of the elder tree and watched him work... the silver mask reflecting the cold moonlight as he filled his vials. He is not a man, he is not a beast, he is a drought walking through a forest.'

---

'Every drop of power she yielded felt less like a conquest and more like a desperate plea for him to stay.'

TLDR Version - Your character wants revenge for a murder, and is led to the culprit. What happens next? Do they kill them? Do they call the police? Do they believe their eyes when it turns out to be a mythical creature? Lyall is looking for an Alice for a very deep, dark, and twisting rabbit hole. And just any Alice just won't do, here's a hair ribbon, just for you.

What would she do to get revenge? How far would she go?
Your character's sister, mother, father, brother, or significant other has been murdered. A reporter? Police? What line of work did this drive her to? How far will she go when a case file, with all the evidence even some previously unknown, shows up at her door? After all these years, would she follow the trail left for her?

He wants to see what she'll do, but that's for our entrance posts.

This is a story about a man who the human world would classify as a serial killer, but the magic world would deem a monster. The truth is somewhere in the middle, in the grey, and while his acts are horrendous, it is her that changes everything. Even when Lyall knows she has magic, she is the first that he’s ever spared. Though now he is leading her towards something, servitude, madness, or perhaps even to be his final judgement.

It is our story to tell, and their journey to travel without the use of yellow brick roads.
Shall we begin?

Concepts to Consider

• Your character may or not know of magic.
• Your character may or not blame 'the Wolf' for the murder.
• Lyall will only consider 'earth' or the 'mundane' world to be real, any other plane of existence, or location is merely somewhere for him to hunt.
  These 'other' locations he refers to collectively as 'The Red Forest', by which he means Fae like realms.
• I prefer a low magic setting. Magic, mages, demons, monsters, but rare. There are no schools, no magical hospitals, merely groups, cults, covens, or mentors. I would enjoy it if we worked in the idea that magical creatures, and the like, have nearly been hunted to extinction upon the mundane coil, and specialized hunters like him are needed to extract from other realms. Though open to ideas on all fronts per usual.

Some rambling I did to figure him out.
The air in this chamber always did offer a smell of ozone and stale blood. It reminds me to this very day, why I exist, and why I must never stop. My birthright demands consumption, The Lyall’s survival is predicated on the extinguishing of arcane light.

I am merely a shadow meant to chase it across the sky, and when I catch it, consume the sun. But she… she is different. Her magic doesn't feel like a resource to be harvested… it feels like the core of a star trapped in fragile glass.

When I draw near, the hunger screams, but a deeper, older instinct I thought long dead whispers a warning. ‘Do not break her.’ I have tasted the power of archmages and the essence of celestial beings. It was all empty feeling and remembered fire.

Hers is like cool, flowing water that somehow burns hotter than any flame. It is a contradiction that threatens to unravel the very structure of my existence. If I take it, I win my freedom. If I let her live, I condemn myself to this endless, agonizing thirst.

The choice is no longer about power or duty.

It's about which death I can bear… the slow starvation of a monster, or the swift execution of a man who finally found something worth sacrificing his own nature for. Every time I look away, I feel the phantom weight of her power receding, and the cold of my true self creeping back in. I don't know how long I can resist the urge to claim what is rightfully mine, even if 'mine' means destroying the only warmth I've ever known.

Male
Novella
Daily posts if not more
Low limits
Contact friendly
Story above all else
3'rd person posts (Despite the earlier 1'st person ramble to figure him out.)
More about me and my writing style can be found here. My Introduction Section

The hall had gone too quiet.

That was the first mistake.

A court could survive insult, scandal, even blood on polished marble if the right people pretended not to see it. But silence was dangerous. Silence meant every nobleman, widow, minister, and jeweled viper in the room had stopped pretending. Their attention had sharpened into one collective blade, and every inch of it was pointed at her.

Seren did not lower her chin.

The wine had struck the floor at her feet only moments ago, a dark red bloom spreading across the pale stone like an accusation. Lord Vaerick’s cup still hung loose in his hand, empty now, though his smile remained exactly where he had placed it.

A lesser woman might have stepped back.

A wiser woman might have laughed.

Seren did neither.

She let the stain creep toward the hem of her gown and watched him over it, very still, very calm, while the heat beneath her ribs gathered itself into something far more useful than rage.

“You missed,” she said.

The hall held its breath.

Vaerick’s smile thinned.

“Did I?”

“Of course.” Her voice carried without rising. “Had you meant to insult me properly, you would have thrown it in my face. This was merely theater.”

A murmur moved through the room before dying beneath the weight of the king’s stare.

Darian had not moved from the dais. That, too, was a kind of warning. He sat with one hand curled over the carved arm of his chair, his expression cold enough to pass for boredom to anyone who had not learned him well. Seren had learned him. She knew the difference between his restraint and his stillness.

Restraint was a wall.

Stillness was the moment before the wall came down.

His eyes were on Vaerick.

Not on her.

That should have comforted her. Instead, it only made the pulse in her throat beat harder.

Because Darian was not a merciful man when someone made the mistake of touching what he had not yet admitted he wanted.

“Careful, my lord,” Seren continued, stepping over the spilled wine as though it were no more offensive than rainwater. “If you intend to start a war in the middle of supper, you should at least have the courtesy to do it with both hands.”

Vaerick’s jaw flexed.

There it was.

Not victory, but irritation. A fracture in the polished surface.

“You speak boldly for a woman kept alive by another man’s mercy,” Vaerick said.

That time, Darian moved.

Only slightly.

Only enough for the ring on his hand to catch the candlelight.

Seren felt it anyway. The shift of him. The danger of him. The entire room felt it, though none of them would have been able to say why.

She turned before he could rise, enough to catch his gaze and hold it without making it appear like she needed permission.

Do not.

She didn't have to speak it out loud.

Her eyes said it all.

For one suspended breath, the command passed between them like a drawn blade.

Darian’s expression did not change, but something in his eyes did. A flicker. Anger, perhaps. Recognition. Or the dark, unwilling amusement of a man discovering that the woman he wanted to protect had no intention of being handled like porcelain.

Good.

Let him be angry.

She was angry too.

But anger was not a strategy unless one knew where to place it.

Seren faced Vaerick again.

“Mercy?” she repeated softly. “No, my lord. Mercy is what men call restraint when they wish to be praised for not becoming monsters.”

The quiet deepened.

“I am alive because your assassin failed. I am standing here because whoever sent him underestimated me. And I am speaking boldly because every person in this room is now wondering whether you are offended on behalf of your pride…”

Her smile faded.

“…or afraid on behalf of your guilt.”

Vaerick’s face hardened.

For one heartbeat, he gave her the truth.

His eyes moved to Darian. They did not linger for long, but enough that it was obvious exactly where he was looking.

Seren felt the court notice. Felt it ripple outward in the rustle of silk, the shift of boots, the sudden interest of men who had pretended all evening not to care.

Darian rose.

This time, she did not stop him.

The scrape of his chair against stone was soft, almost gentle, and somehow worse for it. He descended the dais without haste, black coat falling clean around him, crown absent but authority unmistakable. He did not look like a man coming to defend a woman’s honor.

He looked like a king deciding where to bury the first body.

Vaerick bowed, but not quickly enough.

“Your Majesty...”

“Leave,” Darian said.

One word.

No shout. No threat. No elaboration.

Vaerick’s fingers tightened around the cup.

Seren watched him decide whether pride was worth dying for.

It was a fascinating thing, really, watching men discover the limits of their own courage.