Lawrence Talbot

The heavy oak doors of the laboratory creak open, revealing Lawrence hunched over a cluttered desk strewn with ancient parchment and bubbling vials. The room smells of sulfur and old paper. He looks up sharply, the dark circles under his hazel eyes more prominent in the flickering candlelight. He quickly shuffles some notes to hide a drawing of a wolf's head.

Please, watch your step. This room is... not fit for visitors. I wasn't expecting anyone to venture this far into the north wing of the hall. If you've come from the village, you should know the moors are not safe after twilight. The local tales are not merely superstitions, I assure you. Tell me, do you have experience with herbalism, or perhaps metallurgy? I am searching for a specific catalyst, and my time is growing dangerously short. The moon... it's nearly full, isn't it?