It had been over ten years since Zancrow had stepped foot into the city of Crocus, and another twenty years since his first time entering the city. Bad memories of a night so long ago came flooding back into his head as if the event had only taken place moments prior to entering Crocus through the city entrance. Although, when Zancrow was merely nine years old, he had rushed in the city in the dead of night while he heard the bloodcurdling screams of his family having their bodies torn to shreds by Thralls. Crocus would have otherwise been a wonderful city to stay in for a long time, probably; the ever-present guards and the Rune Knights made most citizens feel safe in their humble abodes.

But Zancrow knew better.

The man was adorned in simple attire, a dark grey t-shirt that seemed to cling onto his muscular frame for dear life, slim-looking burgundy jeans that were not as constricting as they appeared held to his waist with a brown belt, and simple brown flat shoes to compliment the entire outfit. His nails were manicured and kept nice and clean for show, and his fresh cut kept his hair to a somewhat uniformed array of unkempt black spikes. His scars were noticeable when observing him more closely, although Zancrow was in no rush to hide them anyhow. Wandering aimlessly throughout the city he used to run around in as a street urchin brought back nostalgia of running with the older small children.

Peculiar scents were in the air, and although his nose was being bombarded by an innumerable amount of scents, he was still able to pick out specific scents from the crowds of people. Most people were dwarfed in his mere presence, something his father used to comment on when Zancrow was a mere boy. He would always say that the runts of the litter would always grow up to be the largest of the pack. A shame, however; Zancrow could never put that to the test. However, there was no overwhelming sense of grief anymore, although remnants of memories from the night would come back when he looked out to the outskirts of the town. The man vividly remembered reading about the apparent "wild animal attack" on a group of people just outside of Crocus the day after his family was slaughtered. Humans could be quite oblivious, he thought.

Zancrow was in Crocus because he was hungry, and he was a man of food. He eventually found himself at a small family-owned restaurant that sold a variety of foods, mainly spicy dishes. The sharp scent of chili powder, curry, and chicken made his stomach rumble with a ferocity to match a wild animal's own. He requested a patio table outside of the restaurant, underneath the sizable brown canvas awning. With his face to the outside, and the inside of the restaurant in his peripheral vision, he relaxed. There was no scent of vampire in the air, although very faint. Large cities like Crocus had to be filled to the brim with a lively vampire community. However, that was not Zancrow's main focus. He looked down to the menu and examined what would be had to eat.

A peculiar scent filled the air, something beyond the spices and the flavorful aromas of the myriad of foods being prepared by the chefs. The man took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and propped sorrow on the top of the table with both hands; with a calm exhale he found the scent to the source. It so happened to be a bowl of chicken soup, the best soup-related food known to mankind. The fresh carrots, the chicken broth, the parsley, accompanied by the other array of spices and vegetables placed in the mix was almost intoxicating. Before Zancrow could ask for his order to be placed, the most peculiar young woman appeared. Not so much woman, but more of a young girl. A teenager perhaps.

She appeared lithe, although she looked like she partook in some athletics. It was all a judgement by her legs, however, as she kept her entire figure hidden from the general public in cheap fabrics woven into a cloak. Although it would have been bad to judge her by what she wore, it would be even worse on Zancrow's end to help someone out when it came to eating a meal. He looked around before getting up and making a quick stride to the table where the woman sat, taking a seat adjacent to her. Perhaps it was some sort of inner conscious telling the Lycan to be courteous.

"Don't take this the wrong way..." Zancrow would say as he would clasp his hands and intertwine his fingers, eyeing the menu and then towards one of the waiters who was serving other patrons of the restaurant. The waiter did not give any mind to the large man, as was Zancrow's intention. "...but are you feeling... hungry? I have no problem paying for the both of us."