Wick Candern's Questionnaire

''Hahaha! Town? City? You gotta be kiddin' me! It's all fuckin' forest out here!''

''...No, no, seriously though. I moved to the Alps as soon as i could, heard tales as a kid about all the horrible monsters and crap and i was like 'heh, hell yeah!'...Don't got nothin' but deer and whatever else here, but one day i'll find them. They are real after all.''

Wick lives in a long abandoned log cabin that he'd fixed up himself. Decorated with old, ruined and repaired furniture. Plenty of band-aid fixes for a lot of things, No AC, but there's still hot water and a wood stove, alongside an old sauna. It's not much, but it's life.

''Mo- HHHHAHAHAHA! Oh my god you're kidd- Hahahaha! Money!? Really!? A guy like me!? Oh, oh my god...heh..man.

...You wouldn't happen to have a fiver to spare, would you?''

Wick primarily spends his money on fixing his house, ''The Ship of Theseus'' or so he calls it. Naturally, these repairs are very slow considering his...lacking. financial status. Alongside basic provisions such as beef jerky, water, alcohol, and of course, bullets. He eats everything he kills, and is sort of competent at brewing his own moonshine. It's just enough to barely survive, but it's something. Due to Wick's very off grid nature, he doesn't get much money, nor does he have a use for it, but his primary monetary gain comes from pawning off stuff he finds in the woods, regardless of what it is. Old camping gear, lost jewelry, and mostly just random abandoned knick-knacks. It's a tough life, cleaning up those woods, but someone's gotta do it. And that someone is him.

''My biggest ambition?...'' He leans into his seat, deep in thought for a moment before taking a swig from a flask. ''Kill the biggest, baddest, scariest fuckin' sumbitch i can find, a'course. Occult, demonic, Cthulhu-esque, it don't matter, long as it's big enough. It's a simple goal, but a man can dream. Mabye i'll become some ruler of hell or horseman of the apocalypse or something.'' 

Wick's ultimate goal is a very simple one on paper, hunt a big monster. But amidst his drunken ramblings and southern accent lies something within.

Wick, in some misguided, strange way, wants to understand and master the occult as a whole. He wants to know what makes everything tick, and how to make the world bend to his whims. Like a disney princess covered in the blood of nightmare creatures, he wishes to command, say, an army of hellhounds? to help him kill these beasts. If some folks gotta die along the way, may god rest their souls.

''Well, i would tell you it's when i had my first drink. Gave me all them brain damages and shit. Heh, naw. Just kidding.

Seriously though, let me fuckin' tell you, man.'' Wick says as he recounts his tale with a hefty swig of alcohol.

When Wick was a young boy, at the age of nine, his family's pet dog, Sif, a great dachshund Doberman mix, was his very overprotective guardian angel (or, hellhound?), often accompanying the young Wick when he would go play outside, or just leave the house at all, for the matter. Sif never left Wick's side, sometimes even refusing to. One fateful day, Sif had heard something stalking him out in his neck in the woods, and like usual, the over-paranoid dog bolted off, just when Wick expected Sif would return, he was not there.

Ten seconds.

Twenty seconds.

Thirty...

Only silence. Now afraid, Wick ran home, afraid for the life of his guardian. He returned to his father, Rexand Candern, whom immediately knew something was wrong when the boy came home without the dog. Rex reached for his rifle, telling his son this - ''We're gonna find him. You 'n me. Today you're going to learn to shoot a gun, boy.''

Those were the words Wick heard as he very suddenly inherited his family's vintage Colt M1911, it was his father's father's, and his father before him, and his father before him, now placed into the hands of nine-year-old Wick Candern. ''What happened, Wick?'' Was the next statement asked to the boy as the two of them piled out of the door, guns loaded and ready.

Thirty minutes pass, Wick and Rex have chased Sif's still fresh pawprints in the early morning sun. The trail isn't very long, nor does it go cold. The pawpads come to a sudden skid, a stop.

There is blood in the water.

The blood of the beloved family dog. It was wounded, a struggle, apparent by the loose teeth. Fought like hell, it did. And yet, nowhere to be found. The boy sheds tear after tear, fearing the worst. His father sternly grabs the young Wick by the shoulder. ''We're gonna find him, son. Trust me. No matter how long it takes.''

They followed the signs of struggle, until the pawpads return, awkwardly spaced out. Victorious, yet injured, clearly beginning to stumble. The old hound is still putting up a fight, they know it.

There is barking from the trees. Ever familiar, the boy has no time to dwell, for now is the time to become a man.

The two rush towards the trees, the barking getting closer and closer, no, farther...farther... A game of cat and mouse, an animal begging for help.

The two are deep into the woods now, sun high. It had been hours of tracking clues and following cries, and yet they refused to give up.

Out of the treeline stumbles Sif. His mouth unmoving, his barks all too similar, his pitch spot on. Injuries to the sides which should leave him unable to walk.

The two are far enough into the woods now. Perfect pickings.

The effigy of a once beloved pet climbs onto it's hind legs, head tilting and smile growing. There is a meal in store today after all.

''Daddy?'' Wick says, his voice breaking, tears streaming down his face.

''I- Is Sif okay? He's...Hurt, pa.''
The old man steels himself, hands still shaking as he begins to raise his rifle.

''That ain't Sif. Not no more. You remember how i told you you was gonna learn something today?'' He says, teeth gritting in despair as his finger wraps the trigger.

''I'll tell you it now son. Put your finger around the trigger-- Squeeze, don't pull. Point it at the dog, boy.''

Wick bursts into hysterics as the mauled carcass takes a stumbling step forward, Rex yells out ''HEY! DON'T YOU FUCKIN' MOVE! NOT ONE STEP!'' The weeping of his young boy not exactly falling on deaf ears. He knows what he must do. Defend his young, stake his claim. Fell the beast which should not be standing. With it's next step, the rifle round impacts it, sending it tumbling to the floor with a gut-wrenching yelp. Now it sits whining, wheezing. Wick's hands shake as he raises the gun, his father offering comfort ''Hey, hey. Look at me, son. Look at me. That's not a dog no more- No, no, don't listen to it. Keep the gun pointed there. Look at me. I'll help you.'' Rex's hands grab onto his own son's as he steps behind him. ''Look, these here. s'like a blindfold. You put them on, you can't see nothin'. Don't worry, don't worry.'' He says, solemnly placing his sunglasses over Wick's tightly shut eyes ''You gotta do it before it gets back up, Wick. Be quick, if you do it, he won't be hurtin' none. You're doing him right, boy.'' Wick's father places his own fingers into the pistol's trigger guard, helping Wick point the gun at the beast's head.

And so, he pulled the trigger. Bringing the woods to a still silence once more.

-

''That was...'' Wick adjusts his sunglasses. ''That's how i got into this. My dog got stole by some forest beast, 'n...'' He sighs, a single tear pouring through. ''Since then... Never forgot. I can still hear my pop's words. Since then, started putting research into this whole 'occult' mess. Learned how to kill them. Learned what made em tick. That was the day i became the man i am.''