Couverte's mother died giving birth to him - as a result, his father blamed him for her passing and never, ever treated him well.

His father’s neglect was a charity, compared to the verbal and oftentimes physical abuse he suffered through. Being shoved or shaken was commonplace - so much so that he took to eating at night to avoid being chastised or beaten for being in the way. In an all too literal sense, he was a prisoner in his own home, held captive by the only caretaker he’d ever known. He was forbidden from leaving the house, much less the village of Dulac, and his plight gradually took a toll on him.

Though Couverte feared his father greatly, his brother was a nightmare made manifest. Having always been particularly small and frail for his age, likely due to never having eaten much, he was a particularly soft target for his brother’s ire. Maybe it was because he was so helpless, or perhaps his sibling merely used him as stress relief - regardless, he was rarely given a moment’s peace. It was cruelly poetic that he’d been born with a tear-shaped spot on his cheek, marking him as a permanent crybaby and giving his family one more thing to harass him about.

Things had been bad enough for most of his life, although it got even worse when he was around the age of nine. For one reason or another, his brother began treating him like a girl; the bullying was innocent enough at first, being called a sissy and forced to wear women’s undergarments, but it wasn’t long before a depraved element entered the mix. Once he was forced into sexual acts while his father was away or asleep, he pined for the relative tranquility of his earlier youth. Broken on every conceivable level, it was no shock that he eventually associated any sort of climactic pleasure with the trauma and pain he’d endured.

His father never discovered the depravity that was occurring behind his back, though that may have been a blessing. For all he knew, the ill-tempered man may not have cared or, at worst, joined his brother in exploiting him. It was, without question, one of the darkest times of his relatively short life, and there were many nights he prayed for a release from that which was the hell of his existence.

It wasn’t until he was thirteen that he finally understood that he, himself, was his only salvation. During a stormy night in autumn, beneath the clouded, moonless sky, he slipped from his window and onto the cobblestone of the street just outside his home. He knew not where he was going, stumbling through the driving rain and wind, yet the cool, open air against his vulnerable hide was a soothing balm. Even if he perished out in the darkness, he would be free.

He found his way onto a small, wooded path that went south of Dulac. While the route was unmarked, a muddy road that trailed into the distance, it couldn’t lead him anywhere worse than where he’d fled from. Eventually stopping just beyond a treeline, he spied a manor resting atop a small hillock. The barred gate didn’t stop him, the gaps between the wrought iron being just large enough for him to slip through, although the large, imposing entryway gave him a moment for pause.

A part of him was compelled to leave, that he may get a beating for such a transgression, yet the cold and his desperation proved too much to bear. He mutely scratched at the door like some soaked, forlorn animal, beseeching the heavens for a miracle - a miracle which was eventually granted. Though the warm, welcoming light that bathed him offered comfort and the promise of salvation, he couldn’t bring himself to look up at his savior. He merely stood there, soggied and shivering like the deplorable little creature he always felt he was.

Couverte twisted in place, inspired by curiosity but grappling with his anxiety, while he lingered on the doorstep of the mysterious manor. Whom and what lay within was a mystery, but the shelter of the awning above him was worth the risk of an unwanted greeting. Ignorant and overwhelmed by the grandeur all around him, he clutched himself in bewilderment.

He looked up as a towering figure looming over him looked down. The suspicion and curiosity lingering on the stranger’s stoic, gaunt face, did nothing to soothe his frazzled nerves. With cold, piercing eyes, like twin sapphires, the tacit creature’s gaze flayed him to the bone - almost as if it was looking through him and to his very soul. He tensed, looking away from the doorman’s athletic build and dapper suit, and fought the urge to flee. Something felt off about this person - not with their reaction to him, but with them as a whole. Their build was slight, slender, and there was a faint, almost imperceptible air about them.

Lowering his head, he averted his gaze and turned his eyes to the floor. Regardless of what their intentions were for him, it was rude to stare - that and risking their ire wouldn’t do him any favors whatsoever. He yelped and momentarily resisted, trying and failing to scamper back out and into the rain as he was hauled into the foyer.

His defiance died the moment he glanced up at them. Whoever this person was, whatever past they had, they were not to be trifled with. The smallest snort of indignation, or perhaps of annoyance, was all it took to rob him of what pitiable little strength he had. Through the manor and up a flight of stairs he shuffled, leaving a trail of water in his wake, until he came to rest in a den - no, a study of some sort.

Colorful masks and exotic blades hung from the walls, a fire crackled in a small hearth on the far side of the room, and dozens upon dozens of books lined the shelves surrounding him, but the trinkets and items weren’t the only things awaiting him. Along with the doorman, there was another - a bespectacled feline lounging behind a desk. With a twitch of his ear, undoubtedly drawn by the commotion from his unexpected visitors, he pushed himself up from his seat and took up an ornate cane resting beside it.

Couverte reflexively stepped away from his unwanted tender as soon as they released him. The moment he shot forward, moving into the study, a pair of armed, even more intimidating figures flanked him from behind. Defiance bled from him like water through a sieve as he accepted defeat and whatever grisly fate awaited him for his transgressions.

The frail-looking gentleman tottered nearer and waved a hand, prompting the duo of guards to sidle away from the boy. Staring blankly down at the ground as he was circled, Couverte fought off a sort of chill that wasn’t from his sodden fur which had soaked him to the bone. The room was still and silent, not a single word was spoken, while a bead of water or perhaps a lonesome tear rolled down his nose and fell to the carpet beneath him.

With a deep sigh, the man came to a halt before him. Summoning his courage, Couverte lifted his head and found his unwitting host peaking a brow and looking past him, and to the door. The respect he commanded was palpable, or possibly his staff simply knew him exceptionally well - in either case, the doorman cleared their throat.

“Master Maxwell, I found this,” she flatly stated, unable or unwilling to mask a note of disdain from the final word she spoke.

Maxwell responded only with a soft smile and the slightest nod as he shifted his focus back to his bedraggled visitor. His eyes, unlike those of the porter or the two nameless centurions, held a warmth tinged with something else - dismay perhaps. With a tap of his cane, his expression hardened.

“Linens, Frida” he faintly huffed. Turning and covering his muzzle to stifle a cough, he shifted his focus back to Frida. “Linens and try to find him something dry to wear. I’ll not have some erstwhile ragamuffin dying of exposure in my study.”

In all but the literal blink of an eye, Couverte was swaddled in a white sheet. He truly couldn’t say how long he’d stood there, both mentally and physically numb while expecting nothing more than a sound beating, he found himself being gingerly ushered over to a seat by the fire. No longer quivering or crying, he remained motionless with his eyes downturned, as if in shock.

Maxwell wavered as he knelt in front of the boy, throwing out a hand to stop Frida when he nearly lost his balance, and turned his face upward. His guest wasn’t looking at him, so he went to where his guest looked - it was as simple as that. In spite of his efforts, the offering of a blanket, and his amiable nature, his questions about who the lad was, where he’d come from, and why he’d suddenly appeared were to no avail.

“Wait here - Nnnph - please,” Maxwell grunted, defiantly getting to his feet and shooting an irritated glance over to one of the two guards who’d offered a hand. He didn’t go far, wandering over beside his fireplace, though what he was doing was lost on Couverte. It wasn’t until he returned, sauntering back with his steps punctuated by the muffled click of his cane, that he was finally able to get a reaction from his guest.

Couverte blinked as a mask came into view. Held out by the gentleman and directly in his line of vision, the item was as simple as it was ghostly. Two yawning hollows for eyes, a downturned, open grimace for a mouth, and crafted from what appeared to be wood, the thing stared up at him.

With a trembling hand, he reached out and delicately plucked the mask from Maxwell’s clutches. This was a gift, much like the blanket covering him, and it would be impolite to refuse it. As he turned the wood over and noticed slender strings hung from its back, the barest trace of a smile graced his muzzle. He might not have had the courage to face his host, but someone else might. Donning the unique and admittedly ghastly item, he lifted his head.

It felt strange - oddly comforting and not unlike a shield, and it afforded a certain comfort that was hard to put to words. Looking out through the eye holes, with only his face concealed, he exhaled. There was only one thing left to do, yet it pained a part of him to do it.

“I..I’m…” he croaked, his voice an ephemeral rasp. “I’m C…Couverte…”

His name - his name was all he could muster - that was until he was offered help finding his way home in the morning. He recoiled, stricken with abject terror, and quietly sobbed. Compared to the home he’d fled, a cold, lonely death in the wilds would be a mercy. Maxwell sagely stroked his chin for a moment, deep in thought, then waved Frida over and whispered something in their ear.

They decided to offer him a bed, a reprieve from the storm outside and the demons which haunted him, and he reluctantly accepted it - if from weariness if nothing else. For the first time since he had been unceremoniously yanked off the doorstep and dragged to the study, he moved willingly. One shuffling step forward was followed by a second, then a third and a fourth, as he extended his arms and crept towards Maxwell. His host lifted a hand and shook his head at the tensed guards behind him, remaining as serene as ever when he was, unexpectedly, embraced. Behind his mask, away from prying eyes, Couverte smiled and let the warmth radiate to his core.

At long last, in defiance of a life of abject misery, hope had found him.

He slept like the dead, passing out the moment he curled up in the bed he was shown to, and the following dawn brought with it a new chapter of his life. He met the various guests and staff members of the manor, from Avis, the chief maid, to Lacie, a fellow visitor, though that was only the start of his adventure. Fine foods, friendly faces, even learning about bizarre creatures called women - each revelation was more uplifting than the last.