a metal collar

Rudolf remembers jack squat about his past. His earliest memory is of a wooden ship rocking in the waves. He was stuck below deck, chains around his neck and connected to the floor, preventing him from standing upright despite the ache in his back. His first glimpse of sunlight was a fleeting moment as the sun retreated beyond the horizon while he was yanked off the ship and onto the harbor.[break][break]

He and plenty others had been brought to Niphios under the pretense of joining the labor force, or so the crew's papers said, though whoever was expecting him did not seem the least bit surprised when the ragged canine was dragged up with a metal collar and leash. Despite whatever official forms were submitted, he was unpaid and forced to do whatever was told of him. They trained him to become a guard dog, to put it bluntly. They used any means necessary to ensure he obeyed as well as to make sure he would attack, going as far as to starve him before they had guests that were not meant to leave.[break][break]

He was broken down and reshaped in the image desired by his master: as close to a feral hound as they could get yet with the comprehension level they could not get from the dungeons. He was quick witted, capable of going to any means necessary to accomplish a task. Failure meant a beating and going without his evening meal, locked away in a cage. Success meant a scratch under his chin and just enough meat to keep him satisfied until the next morning.[break][break]

When his master's home was raided after a whistle blower reported to the Guild, no command came. He was left in a cage in the back of a hidden chamber in his master's bedroom, waiting for his master to come back. Yet no one came. He waited for a whole twenty hours before hunger had him gnawing at the bars. He was bored of that by twenty-eight hours and took to bashing his shoulder against the cage walls. Eventually, by the thirty-fourth hour, the door popped off its hinges and fell to the ground with a clatter that echoed throughout the room.[break][break]

Fueled by hunger, he sought out whatever food he could find, following the stale scent of eggs and bacon from before the raid. The kitchen was demolished by the time he was done with it.[break][break]

Out of the mansion and into the alleys he went, cloaked by night. Unfamiliar with his surroundings, he took one wrong turn and ended up tumbling down an open hole in the ground and straight into the sewers below. His nose was assaulted by too many foul scents that he kind of wanted to roll in, so he did what any sane person would: roamed around sniffing everything.[break][break]

He was later found by a couple of weirdos wearing sunglasses underground in the middle of the night. They tried to chase him away, but they underestimated who they were up against. Or, perhaps, they overestimated him? They obviously wanted to play, but the moment claws were whipped out, the Lycanroc immediately dropped into an attack stance.[break][break]

Their tussle was broken up by a woman's voice that caused the shades-wearing Pokemon to retreat before they could end up someone's midnight snack. Despite his best efforts to get at the retreating forms, he was stopped short as someone grabbed a fistful of his mane and yanked him back, leaving him no opportunity to break free. That did not stop him from thrashing around, but he stopped when his head grew sore from the vice grip on his fur.[break][break]

A bone with scrap meat still clinging to it was set in front of him at some point, and, if you asked him, he had no clue what happened next. All he cared about was that beautiful bone.[break][break]

He had been recognized by one of the few guests that had been allowed to leave the next morning. Perhaps it was the only reason why he had been kept alive. He was useful, more so than someone that you needed to convince or threaten into loyalty. All he needed was food, a pat, and a little praise to set his eyes only on that person. His previous master was forgotten in a matter of days as he poured his entire being into seeking the praise and approval of one Freja Abbott.[break][break]

From there, she attempted to teach an old dog new tricks, specifically in terms of manners and, most importantly, common sense. Both were equally hard challenges. He already came a trained dog. He could sit, stay, and roll over. But shake? Bow? Don't eat something potentially poisonous? Show self-restraint? Focus on his orders long enough to go unsupervised for five minutes?[break][break]

Eventually, he learned.[break][break]

No matter how desperately he tried to protect his new master, even he could not prevent her demise. It was strange, really. Before, left in a cage, he had thought nothing of the master that had been carted away by the guild, only wondering when someone was going to come feed him. Yet to actually find the body of the one who had (forcefully) taken him in?[break][break]

He felt angry. Anger at whoever had done this. Anger at himself for not being by her side, for failing. Anger at the fact that no one else would come near him to throw him a Arceus damned bone![break][break]

And then came the next fox meant to take her place, just as swiftly as she had been taken away. Rudolf struggled to accept this change. Grimalde smelled of the Guild--strike one. Grimalde did not give him the time of day; no praise, no scratches. Strike two. He didn't even know he was supposed to feed him! Strike one million.[break][break]

... Look, no one taught him how to count. It's a miracle Freja got him to learn the alphabet.[break][break]

But, he was a good dog. He would listen, begrudgingly.

ruffled fur

Rudolf is, in most ways, your average Lycanroc. White and red fur smears across his body, and a seemingly eternal glare narrows his red eyes. His fur is ragged and coarse, the result of having a thick double layered coat (that sheds a lot) and not caring enough to worry about maintaining standard hygiene practices. Rolling in the dirt every now and then should be fine, right? The rain counted as a shower, right?[break][break]

The thick white mane of fur the stretches from mid-back to over his face is parted into two, both sides curving toward his neck. A thick metal collar sporting a rusty circular dog tag with his name on it (the only way he actually knew his name after someone read it out to him) rests around his neck. The collar was once enchanted to prevent him from straying too far from his master, though the magic wore off and faded only a year after it was applied. Now, it's nothing more than a "fashion choice," as he likes to claim. Really, he feels naked without it on despite... never wearing pants.

Should you find him walking on all fours, he only comes up to about three foot four at the shoulder. The moment he stands, he rises to four foot six, and he likely would be taller if he could straighten his back enough. Good posture went against his nature, so he never put forth the effort to "correct" his stance.

[attr="class","revcallstat"]15
ATK

[attr="class","revcallstat"]10
DEF

[attr="class","revcallstat"]00
SPATK

[attr="class","revcallstat"]00
SPDEF

[attr="class","revcallstat"]05
SPD