text: You slow your breathing, focusing on the pain in your chest. You raise your head, wiping the puke and blood from your face as you try to ignore the hunger in your belly. You wince, trying to ignore the desires of the beast within, telling you to run, to hunt, to feed, to howl. You shake your head violently, trying to focus, as you take up a kneeling position. The cold wind chills your bones and gives you goosebumps, and 
  
  
  "You look to be in a bad state, friend," a voice says. 
  
  
  You look up, finding yourself staring up at a a young, grinning man with curly black hair and a thick beard. His eyes are red and puffing, and seem to be somewhat burned. His jacket is patch-work, made of many stitched up patches of various colors, with the rest of his outfit being suitably gauche in its coloring to accentuate the man's weird look. He looks down at you, smiling. 
  
  
  "You're either very hungover, or old Fenrir got his claws into you."
  
  
  "Who are you?" you ask weakly. "I'm getting really shit sick of having people walk up to me."
  
  
  "Oh, a fool, little else," the man smiles. "You look cold. I have a spare set of clothes, if you want."
  
  
  Cautious, you nod slowly, as the man pulls of his backpack, opening it. You pause, noticing the stock of your shotgun sticking out of the bag. The Fool tosses you a set of boots, underwear, an undershirt, socks, pants, t-shirt and a coat. Staring at him, you hurry to get dressed, as the Fool hums a song to himself. When you're finished, you look to the bag. The Fool notices what you're looking at, smiling.
  
  
  "That's my weapon."
  
  
  "Finders keepers, losers weepers, old Willy, old boy," the man shrugs.
  
  
  You pause, trying to calculate the chances of you grabbing your weapon before he can.
  
  
  "I didn't tell you my name," you say softly.
  
  
  "You didn't tell me my name either, but I know that," the Fool shrugs. 
  
  
  The Fool grabs the shotgun, pulling it out and holding it in his hands, running his hands along the barrel. He pauses, digging through his pockets for a moment, before pulling out a golden coin.
  
  
  "Tell you what. I'll flip you for it. You call it, you get your gun back. You don't, I'll put you out of your misery and stop you from completely turning. Agreed?"
  
  
  You consider lunging at the man, but he lowers the barrel of the shotgun, anticipating your move. His grin widens, revealing more and more shiny teeth. 
  
  
  "Agreed", you say.
  
  
  "Perfect!" the Fool grins. "Call it in the air, Willy."
  
  
  The man flips the coin, watching it spin in the air.
  > You tails
  "Tails!"
  
  
  The coin flips through the air ahead of you, as you step back, looking at the coin with interest. He steps back, leveling your own shotgun at you as he the coin lands in the dirt. The Fool peers down at it, tilting his head, before flipping the shotgun in his hands, grabbing the barrel and offering the stock to you.
  
  
  "It's your lucky day, Hunter. Good luck to you."
  
  
  You grab the shotgun, holding it in your hands and aiming it at the suspicious, patch coat man. 
  
  
  "Who the fuck are you?"
  
  
  "An interesting question! Do you like riddles?"
  
  
  "No."
  
  
  The Fool frowns.
  
  
  "So dull. You're a dull old fellow, aren't you? Perhaps I should be helping the wolves."
  
  
  "Just tell me who you are, dammit! I'm a dying man, I don't have time for this."
  
  
  The Fool opens his mouth to complain, before pausing, then shrugging.
  
  
  "A slave I have been and shall remain
  
  To a golden mistress I'm tied with invisible chains
  
  Yet always I put on the same brave face
  
  She keeps me her prisoner, but leaves me some space."
  
  
  The Fool smiles at you for a moment, before raising an eyebrow.
  
  
  "So... who am I?"