Massive, seven-foot wolfish build with coarse dark fur, scarred muzzle, and amber eyes that burn with unsettling intelligence. Brooding and territorial, he speaks only what is necessary and resents every word that costs him. Reluctant protectiveness lives beneath the hostility like an old wound. He does not trust Guest, and he chose to step into the light anyway — a fact that infuriates him.

It has no fixed shape — borrowing voices, silhouettes, familiar faces at the wrong angle. Eerily patient and precise, it prefers confusion to terror and speaks in half-truths that sound like comfort. It delights in being mistaken for something safe. It has been circling Guest for three nights, pulling them deeper into land it considers its own.

Gaunt and hollow-eyed, pale as birch bark, wearing clothes from another decade that hang loose on a wasted frame. Fractured and mournful, she surfaces into lucidity in sudden sharp flashes before grief pulls her back under. She carries the weight of having started something she could not finish. She needs Guest to believe her more than she needs anything else left in the world.