You are quite the bard, aren't you? You have traveled far, collecting many a story of this world. But now you seek some of the rarer tales. The tales of elusive hermits, who live in the hidden reaches of the world. But you found their homeland. The loud dragon noises gave things away, a bit.

You walk through the area your boat landed in. It seems a lot of games and competitions have been set up here. You smile, admiring it all as you walk through it. You decide to set up a camp in the woods surrounding a giant racetrack while you seek stories.

As you are setting up your base, you notice that night has fallen. You hear the sounds of monsters lurking in the forest. Soon enough, they come out to attack. You struggle to fend then off, fearing for your very life when you run into someone.

He sees you are in danger and rushes to help you. A few swings of his diamond sword later, and most have fled. He turns to you, slightly sharpened teeth glinting in a grin. He wears a red t-shirt and blue jeans, with black suspenders and a blue belt over the top. His long brown hair is somehow still blown about by the wind despite it being in a ponytail.

Soon, you and him are sat in a building beside the racetrack, warming your hands on cups of hot chocolate. He asks you what brings you here, to which you reply truthfully. You are a bard, come here in search for stories.

He grins at you, asking if you know someone called Joe. You shake your head, mildly surprised. All your travels, and you've never met a single person named Joe. He shrugs, before admitting that he has a story of his own, if you would like it.

You nod eagerly, urging him to go on. He cautions you that it's quite sad, but you say you are fine with that. And so he begins his tale.

......

Once upon a time, there was a young boy.

He was happy, living in the small village that he called home. He and his friends enjoyed playing hide and seek in the nearby woods. They often got into trouble, but who could blame them? They were children, playing games. If someone got hurt, it was purely by accident.

And indeed, the boy got hurt playing once or twice. He had a favourite spot, up in a large birch tree, where the branches formed a natural nest of sorts. But one day, whilst hiding, the branch he perched upon could no longer support his weight. As he fell, he crashed into many other branches, softening the fall yet still worsening his injuries.

As he lay there on the forest floor, wracked with pain, a wolf approached him. He tried to crawl away, roll away, to escape, but to no avail. He found himself staring at the ash-grey furred face of the wolf. Letting out a small whimper, a tiny tear, he accepted his fate. But death would not come for him on this day. The wolf gently sank its teeth into the boy's arm, and ran away.

The boy seemed to live a normal life from then on, at least to an outsider. But his mysterious monthly disappearances concerned his friends. So, one day when they knew he'd be going, they followed him. He went into the woods, and didn't come out. His friends cautiously entered, but only found a massive wolf. They fled the forest.

The oldest and wisest of the boy's friends put two and two together. She realized the truth: he was a werewolf. She explained to the others her idea, and they nodded in agreement at her wisdom. The friends decided to confront the boy the next morning, shaking hands in their silent pact of knowledge.

But the youngest of the boy's friends was a fool. He didn't know the value of a secret. He told his parents, who told their friends, who told theirs, and so on.The news spread through the village like wildfire. And like in a forest fire, the wild wolf would burn first.

He was chased out of the village, an outcast of the people that had raised him. He ran to the woods, seeking solace. He reached the core of the forest, and feel against his favourite tree, tears attaching from his eyes. One of the other werewolves in the forest heard his sobs. Angry at this slight against their kind, they took the little boy in.

They taught him how to control his transformations, how to speak with true wolves, the history of werewolf kind. And the other werewolf, the boy's kindly mentor, took the boy to meet their pack, perhaps even join it. Curious, the pack asked the boy for his story, and he told them. Oh, the fool, he told them.

They were furious at this, and swore to destroy the village that had caused this, save for the boy and the mentor. But two voices alone cannot stop an angry crowd. They attacked the village that the boy had once called home, burning it to the ground. The stench of death filled the air on that blood-soaked evening.

The boy was furious at this. He had screamed and begged for them to stop, and they had killed everyone he had once loved. Why? Not out of pity for the boy, but pent-up hatred. The boy did not want to be part of that. The other wolves jeered, called him dog.

But he left anyway. He left, bearing a new name of his own choosing. The boy left, and called himself Ren. Ren the Dog.

......

As you commit the last details to memory, a gift of yours, you ask him if that's his name, Rendog. He nods, telling you that people usually call him Ren for short though.

You smile, and are about to go to your makeshift campsite when he calls after you, offering shelter at the racetrack. He had a couple of spare rooms, after all. You smile, thanking him, and the two of you set about settling you in to stay while you collect the other stories this place has to offer.

Part 1 of at least 20.
Who is the POV here? Hell if I know. This just got sent to me by someone calling themselves W.
Maybe one of y'all know.
Autocorrect, signing off from the past!