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Standing at almost seven feet tall in his human form, Zakhar towered over the press of people exiting the Underground. His intense gaze drifted over the throng as people made their way up to street level. He allowed the flow to carry him up with them, his feet moving in uncomfortably short strides for one so large. 

As he topped the stairs and met the gray skies of London, Zakhar drew a hand through his pleasantly disheveled, bleached blond hair. Even in his human form, his face held the striking and powerful beauty of his wolfen other half, and his sharp nose turned up to the clouds to sniff at the damp air. Around him the human wave parted, moving either north or south upon Kentish Town Road. Placing his hands into the pockets of his threadbare jeans, Zakhar turned north, his legs now able to lengthen and take up massive lengths of pavement.

In little time he was veering onto Fortress Road, and moving north still further until he reached the junction of Fortress and Brecknock. Here he stopped, looking to the darkly painted building that occupied the southern corner. Above the front door was a glowing neon sign that read ‘Aces and Eights.’ Zakhar unzipped his faded leather motorcycle jacket, and pulled open the heavy wooden door, and into the bustling saloon bar. His ears were accosted by Blues guitar, and the noise of dozens of liquor lubricated tongues. 

The werewolf wove his way through the crowd, his muscular frame and daunting height drawing the eyes of many. He paid the attention no mind, and moved towards the rear of the saloon like a man with a purpose. As he moved past the end of the bar, he smelled the distinct scent of a vampire off to his right, and his eyes tracked up to a deliciously proportioned woman flirting with a drunk businessman. It would be the most costly piece of ass the man ever had the pleasure of trying, Zakhar knew. The Veiled World was a dangerous place, especially where it met with the human realm. 

[i]It is about to become particularly deadly,[/i] he thought as his gaze fell upon those he was here to meet.

He took a seat at the small booth occupied by two surly looking men in mismatched clothing and dingy complexions. The pair eyed him warily, their gaze moving up and down his body with a conspicuous note of surprise. 

Zakhar smiled at them with a grin that was almost as predatory as the one he wore when covered in fur. “My brothers,” He began, his rich Slavic accent peppering the thick air, “let us speak of Hoyle’s precious castle, and how we are going to bring the walls crumbling down around him.”
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