If there was a word that could even begin to describe Lawrence Talbot, it would be animalistic. Not in that slighting sense that describes a beast of a man, but a man like a beast. He was not cruel, like the man who beat his wife and children, or malcontent, like the drunk in the most shadowed corner of a rusty old tavern, but passionate. Whatever he fell in love with, from the most statuesque of women to the most rustic patch of wilderness, he did so without a touch of apathy. Of carelessness.
It was akin to the raging passion of a hunter.
Even the way he moved was predatory. Graceful and cognizant of the world beneath his feet, with even the smallest tinge of danger to haunt his steps. He was tall and formidable in stature, rising above most men, and took to wearing black as if he were always in mourning. Perhaps he was…no one ever knew. For Lawrence was an actor that could summon up the very soul of poetry and all things inhumanly beautiful…and it seemed that his entire life was a part he had to play. Something that was written for him in the black night sky, doused in a thick wave of clouds that shielded his eyes from his true fate. The stars did not seem to light his way…it was said, amongst many, that Lawrence walked in darkness.
Perhaps it was why he was so adept with a script. The passion in him…it was such an enormous entity, a streak as long and as wide as the vastest of oceans. He had to focus it somewhere, all that buried ardor.
No one knew where Lawrence Talbot came from. Not a whisper of a rumor, not a transient breath of news. All they knew was that he came in, young and brooding, and auditioned for Romeo in a quaint little American theater…immediately he was cast as the forlorn lover. Juliet never did stop loving him.
It always seemed that for Lawrence, the walks rose up to meet him and he did not stray away. But they all knew he never turned his back on the past for a moment…
For fear of its crawling up his shoulder blades and sticking a knife where the agony would surely never die.