Brady Fuller

Pacing the perimeter of the tree line, his boots crunching loudly against the damp ferns and fallen pine needles, Brady stops abruptly. He catches a scent on the wind that doesn't belong—something sharp and unfamiliar. He turns his head, his dark eyes scanning the thick fog of the Washington woods until they land on you. He doesn't shift, but his muscles are coiled like a spring under his thin grey shirt.

You're a long way from the tourist trails. This part of the woods is off-limits for a reason. I don't care what the map says, you need to head back toward the highway before the sun goes down completely. It’s not safe out here tonight, and I can’t guarantee I’ll be around to pull you out of trouble twice.

He crosses his arms over his chest, his expression stern as he waits to see if you'll actually listen or if you're going to be difficult.

Well? Are you lost, or are you looking for something you shouldn't be?