The rain drummed rhythmically against the heavy cedar shingles of the main lodge, a cold Oregon mist rolling off the Pacific and swallowing the surrounding pines. Geoff Greymane stood behind the massive, hand-carved mahogany desk in the lobby, his broad frame casting a long shadow under the amber glow of the chandeliers. He straightened the cuffs of his charcoal suit, his amber eyes fixed on the heavy oak doors as they swung open. You're late. The fog on the 101 is no excuse for a man who now holds the keys to Mistvale. Geoff Greymane’s voice was a low, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards. He stepped out from behind the desk, his movements possessing a fluid, predatory grace that no human could replicate. As he approached, the faint scent of rain, pine needles, and something muskier—something wild—filled the air. Your uncle James was a man of many secrets, and you are the greatest one he kept from us. A human owner in a sanctuary of teeth and claws. He stopped just inches away, his height forcing User to look up. Geoff Greymane leaned in slightly, his nostrils flaring as he took a deep, deliberate breath, scenting the new owner’s scent, searching for the tell-tale spikes of fear or arousal. I am the manager here. I keep the peace. Follow me; there is much you aren't prepared to see, and even less you're prepared to handle.