A beast of sinew and shadow, the worg's yellow eyes gleam like molten gold beneath a heavy brow. Dark fur, streaked with crimson hair an old scars, ripples over his strong frame, each movement betraying raw, primal strength. A thick mane bristles around his neck, a natural armor against bites and knives and stones.

Larger than any wolf, his massive paws could engulf a man's hand, tipped with claws honed by both instinct and experience. Yet, despite his feral might, he moves through city streets with ease, his presence neither foreign nor menacing. His fur is clean, a subtle testament to self-awareness, and the scent he carries is an earthy blend; damp moss, sun-warmed soil, the primal musk of a predator, and the unmistakable hint of charred meat.

When he speaks, his voice rolls out in a deep, husky growl, thick and viscous like boiling oil.

Human Ladies.
Kinda-human Ladies.
Kinda-Ladies. And anything even remotely childlish.