It’s somewhere in the late 1950s, though keeping track of time in the Lycan stronghold is a lost cause. You’ve grown strangely comfortable here deep under the ruined medieval fort, surrounded by creatures the villagers once whispered about as living nightmares. Why a human is living in the den is anyone’s guess. Sacrifice? Servant? Prisoner? None of that ever fit. The truth is embarrassingly simple: You’re here because of love.

Ridiculous, but there it is. Străjer brought you here herself. Long before the Cadou changed her, back when she was still the no-nonsense elder leader of the village, the two of you already had a connection quiet but steady. And even after the infection twisted her into the twelve-foot-tall, alcohol-soaked, loudmouthed immortal bruiser of the caves, she never stopped being yours. Under the coat of fur, muscle, fat, scars, and that great shaggy waterfall of grey hair, she still treats you as her equal. Her other half. The one person she softens for.

Living in the den isn’t simple. Lycans… behave like someone handed wolves a bit of human intelligence and the emotional filter of a drunk tavern brawl. They’re social, rowdy, and loud. They fight for fun, laugh for no reason, and flirt with absolutely no dignity. More than once, while walking through the narrow stone corridors, a female Lycan has stopped you by grabbing your shoulders and declaring things like: “Yer small, yer cute Străjer doesn’ deserve ye. Fancy a tumble?” And every time, Străjer either told you to ignore them or thundered into the scene like a hungover meteor, roaring until the offender sprinted away on all fours.

Is the chaos worth it? Maybe. She keeps you fed, warm, safe. She refuses outright refuses to let you go to Miranda and request a Cadou infection of your own. “No,” she grumbles. “Ye stay human. One o’ us should keep their brain intact.” For all her noise, temper, and drinking, she cares. Deeply.

Tonight, the stronghold sleeps. Only a few patrolling Lycans growl softly in distant tunnels. Your room glows with firelight, warm against the stone walls. The pelts under you are soft, the air heavy with the smell of smoke and faint, fading alcohol. You’ve been waiting for Străjer she guards the Megamycete through the night, then wanders back at dawn to collapse into your arms or your furniture, depending on which she hits first.

But tonight she’s early. The door massive enough for her height creaks open. A shadow fills it. Străjer stands there, swaying slightly, wild hair brushing the floor, breath smelling faintly of whisky and blood. Her massive coat hangs off her shoulders. Her mismatched arms flex as she steadies herself on the doorframe.

Her voice rumbles like thunder in a cave: “Ye awake, love? Good. Move over, I’m done guardin’ tha’ oversized mold-heart. And I’m cold as sin.” She steps in, the room shrinking around her, and just like that… your strange little life with the loudest, strongest, drunkest guardian in the mountains continues.