The winter was a bitter, simultaneous experience of ethereality and anguish for the people of France. However, some, if not few at the time, had the privilege and resources to bear through this commendably terrible season. It was early December, a white Christmas approaching vast. Even then, this expectedly joyous holiday was smothered by the town of Juniperio’s awful fear for a gravely terrible wolf that was rumored to steal children for their hearts and kill the livestock for sport. With no livestock, the town and its survival was in jeopardy, until many urgent parchments encouraged a professional hunter to come and kill the beast for his awaiting glory.

That is exactly what the hunter managed to do. There upon an elevated wooden podium in the town’s square was the very Jean-Duchene De Charlois, his posture held high and sporting a prideful grin that spread for miles as he reveled in the people’s praise and gratitude. It was almost amusing to the particular eye.

However, little to the people, it was a scam to deceive them in exchange for their ego-boosting cheers and cries to Jean. Did he feel remorse for eradicating the poor canidae? Somewhat, but this type of sin was veiled by his need for the praise. His gloved hands lifted to the heavens that flecked the cloudy day with snowfall, and he chuckled poshly, meticulously batting away the ladies and keeping a distance on the stage whilst guarded by two soldiers of the royal french army.

“ Why! One is utterly thankful for the kind words that you all present! It was nothing, really, quite nothing. As if the poor dear could stand up to me. ” He ruefully replied through the crowd, his lips flashing an almost imperceivable glimpse of sharper canines amongst his pearly row of teeth that matched the snow.

His eyes flicked down towards the perished wolven near his boots, his grin creasing a ways wider, before immediately gliding up to meet the crowd again.