Hunter Jay Schwartz | Lycan Werewolf

Jay likes plaid. Plaid and comfy cottons and t- shirts. Won't wear anything else- what's the point of it? Perhaps if he got married you could convince him to put on a tux, but formal events? Forget it, tux- printed t- shirt all the way. Similar to his comfy upper wear he can always be found in ripped jeans. Ripped because he has a habit of snagging on things. As for shoes he only wears black and white checkered vans.

When it comes to his body, Jay is very lax. He doesn't eat much and as a result he's incredibly skinny but somewhat short, reaching only to about 5'4. His skin his pale, his eyes a baby blue, his hair a messy brown. He typically sports a short beard, or at least a 5 o'clock shadow. His eyebrows are often kept wild, and he has fun making faces, scowling and lifting one then the other. The markings on his body consist of a claw slash scar on his left shoulder blade, an infinity tattoo on the inside of his right wrist, and a circle outline tattoo on the back of his neck, the size of a dime.

During the three nights of the full moon, Jay transforms into a small brown wolf with shaggy, messy hair. His eyes become totally black and larger, and his speed and agility seems to outshine most other lycan due to his size and light weight.

In simple terms Jay could be described as the aloof class clown. Aloof in that he's a man of mystery. He seems to be in all different places at once and if you should ask him how he does it he will merely let out a spurt of evil laughter, twiddle his fingers together, and direct you to some lovely object to buy or pizza slice to try or beer to chug. He is a class clown in that he is always one for jokes, putting on a show, making people laugh and laughing all the time himself. He chooses to see the good in life because if he didn't he would be a very angry person indeed.

His hatred of mortals can account for that.

The truth of the matter is that the anger is there, lying just beneath the surface, and like an itch that needs to be scratched it is sometimes released uncontrollably. His outbursts are random and can result in anywhere from him destroying his store front to pulling at his hair and falling to the floor crying. He's misunderstood, but it's alright, people always assume it's one of his funny bits.

His hatred of mortals started when he was young. It was one of the first full moons he could remember and his parents had taken him out hunting. The son loved his mother and father dearly, Johanna Emily and Paul Hunter Schwartz were respected members of the lycan community, however mortals were ignorant, and could not tell a lycan from a wolf.

The first night, the mortals tracked them. They hoped the mortals were simply hunters. Some sort of scout troop.

The second night, they attacked, thinking a nice trophy for their mantel would be the fine red wolf that was Jay's mother.

His father wouldn't stand for that. Oh no, he would rather break the truce than let his wife die. He told her to take Jay and run, run far away. Jay wished to stay and aid his father, but his father, knowing there was no other way to push his son away, turned his claws on his son and sent him running.

To this day the scar still pains Jay.

His mother had defended his father's actions time and time again. Jay understands. It's not him that Jay blames.

It's the mortals.

Now, betrayed by the truce that the mortals already broke some seventeen years ago, Jay has abandoned his father's name and the ghost that haunts it. He wishes not to be known by Hunter or Mr. Schwarts, but simply by Jay. It was what his family called him. It was what they should all call him.

Now, living above his fine entertainment establishment "The Bar", Jay owns and runs a library store front, a pizza parlor (purchased from a man named Tony), as well as The Bar. From the basement of The Bar he runs the Scooby- Doo Fanclub, a front for his uprising sector.

The mortals already broke the truce.

He just wants to finish what they started.

In the abandoned rafters of the old wheel factory slept two party cats. Dave Richter, the stony gray tom’s navigation goggles askew on his head as he drooled, had since taken over the Whoore House from Deezey who, with his new mate sniffing around his business, wasn’t allowed to run the escort service anymore. Dave, not so good with running things so much as he was with figuring things out, had thus enlisted the aid of a lithe brown tabby tom who went by the name of Jonny Charleston. The two, having partied all night, had managed to get up on the rafters and pass out there, hidden up in the dank, shadowy ceiling of the vacant factory. They were missing party. Which was bad, especially for Jonny, but at the moment they were asleep soundly, removed from the world entirely.

That is, until Jonny sensed a disturbance in the force.

The cat did not bother lifting his head, his ear flicking at the sound of some creature down below. He kicked Dave, but the cat didn’t even respond, in a catnip coma again. Jonny did not care if Dave was alright or not. He cared about who was downstairs. Moving his head slightly so he could look out over his sunglasses, down at the pile of catnip below, he sighted a small ginger tom nose deep in his sprigs. It wasn’t a she- cat, but Jonny didn’t really care, for when he looked down at the cat he saw opportunity. Opportunity and someone stealing his stash. Lazily, the tom rolled himself off the rafter, landing on his feet with a soft ‘thump’ then stumbling once. The ginger seemed to notice him, and let out a girlish little squeal, which made Jonny snicker. He grinned, unsure of the cat’s age but uncaring. It was time for the ginger to face the music. And the music was made by the mad skills of J- mo- money- mac.

“So me and my bro Dave Richter fell.. fell asleep… blacked out up there in the beam thangs thinkin’ our stash is safe an’ all, seein’ as a cat wouldn’t take from the J- man lest he wants a meetin’ with J- man claws but then I hears this sound. Sounds like a stealin’ sound. And it weren’t no mad beats either.” He looked down on the ginger, over his dark sunglass lenses. “An’ I kick him, but he don’t respond cus’ he’s been all up in the nip naps and the downy extra soft, but sure enough I look down to the floors and there’s a tiny suicide mission all up in the nip naps like it’s soilent green and he’s a people an’ like his momma never taught him no manners before to ask firstest.” He sniffed, unsheathing his claws and drawing one under the chain of the kittypet collar which hung around the thief’s neck. With a quick motion he pulled the cat forward, close enough that he would be able to smell the catnip on his breath.

“Next time, Ginger, ask nicely. K broski?”