Burke Gala---Fenrir's Fan Mail
where--Burke Gala
who--open if anyone wants to reply, otherwise can be a one-off from Fenrir
Fenrir had been strolling the exhibit, when he paused to look at something, putting his hands into his pockets. No need to repeat his encounter with Skeeter. When his hands hit the unmistakable crinkle of parchment.
The hall was crowded so it would have been easy to slip something in his pocket. No one seemed to be looking for his reaction, but that didn't mean anything. Casually as he could, he made for the nearest bathroom.
A quick check for latent curses or some way to identify the sender did not reveal anything. This branch of magics was not his forte.
His name was on a sealed envelope.
The fucker couldn't even face him to say this. Par for the course being a werewolf with a reputation that precedes you. It wasn't the first time Fenrir had received fan mail like this. When he was first turned, comments like this would have for sure gotten to him. Hell, he'd completely spiraled at the invitation earlier in the week. But, lately he has started to wonder why he should be shamed.
Shoving the paper haphazardly into the inside pocket of his jacket, his constant companion, anger, in his chest simmering to show those witches and wizards exactly why they should be afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.
Fenrir took a deep breath and entered back into the bustling hall.