"Family first, Marcelo," he remembered his father's baritone voice, always saying the phrase. Marcelo had found his father to be infinitely wise man with a good heart. The first time Marcelo had heard his father utter such a phrase had been when the dark eyed boy, at the time just a boy, a mortal, human boy, though still as much a deviant as he was today, had asked why he had pushed a farm instead of continuing to sail, as his father had loved nothing more than the sea. "I met your mother, and she wanted a family, and family, before all else, comes first, Marcelo, my son," he had said with such seriousness and conviction. Marcelo, as young as he had been at the time, had unstop the weight of his father's words and he knew he had to what he could to provide for his family. He had decided in that moment that from then on everything he would do would be with his family in mind. When he expressed such thoughts to his father, the dark haired man and reached down and gently held his son's head within his strong hands. "My boy, never forget that, never lose that desire."

The story goes, his father had been a sailer, a man of the sea, having been on boats from nearly the time he was born. He had learned how to sail early on and eventually took jobs on whatever boats he could find. His time on land was limited, just the way Alonso had wanted it. He had just stepped off the boat in a seaside german village, already he was eager to return onto the ship, though his ship would be here for quite some time. The man thought, perhaps he would find another ship leaving sooner and see if assistance was needed. He bought himself an apple, and just as he was enjoying that first crisp, wonderful bite when a woman with locks like the wheat fields he had known when he was younger and eyes as blue as the sky in perfect sailing conditions. She staring outwards at the sea before her head dipped to a notebook she was writing in. Carefully, he made his way over to the woman, she had so quickly caught his interest that he needed to meet her. He looks over his shoulder with those dark eyes and peers down at her notebook, and sees not writings, but drawings.

Of ships.

"I thought a woman such as yourself would be drawing flowers or cute animals," he said to her in perfect German. Having been working on ships for nearly his entire life, Alonso had picked up many languages throughout his life. "Bold of you," said the woman with hair like cornfields. "But it seems I was mistaken, for you understand the true beauty of the world." The words rolled off his tongue with a dreamlike quality, as always happened whenever he spoke of the ships and the sea. And she turned around to face him, her eyes a china-blue, her skin nearly porcelain. She was perfect and sudden the ocean was no longer calling him home, but something else entirely.

So, this girl is not the type to listen, eh? Tsk, tsk. She doesn't seem to respond to Marcelo's warning growl that had rumbled up through his throat, the boy stuck in between it would seem, his jackal side and human, despite his body having returned to its original, birth form of a sixteen year old male. His instincts are all characteristics of an injured animal wanting to keep itself same, so really Marcelo has zero blame in this situation (as he would later tell if anyone asked him why he would growl at such a kind hearted huntress who had meant him no harm.) His dark brown eyes stare at her intently, as a dominate creature would do, feeling a sense of feral satisfaction when her own gaze drops downwards, imaginary hackles in human form lowering slightly. Having no pack as is the way of a solitary animal such as the jackal, Marcelo is his own alpha, and therefore answers to no one, and occasionally too assumes his alpha rights over those who cross his path. He does not lay claim to the blonde, nor does he view her as beneath him, but Marcelo answered to no one or anything. Of course, this all seems to leave the instant she ushers such an embarrassed apology in sweet lyrics.

His coy smirk only grows ever more...coy as it continues to stay etched across his face, and in Marcelo's opinion it only seemed to make him that much more devilishly handsome. And perhaps it is his young nature, for his brain, while he had been able to continue to hone in skills and learn new knowledge, it had hardly matured passed that of a sixteen year old teenager. So while lusty men may wonder what she looks like under those clothes, he briefly thinks that she looks like the type that may be a good dancer, and how he ought to take her more feminine hand within his and see for himself. For the jackal sees her not as a rabbit trapped within his grasp, but perhaps a sparrow, not prey, not predator, merely there for him to admire.

Mocha eyes remain captivated on the blonde as she says her name, watching as her lips move with gentle curiosity. The name gives Marcelo no sense of familiarity, only widens his grin. "Good name, it's no Marcelo Rumeir, but good none the less," he says with a small laugh and a wink of that earthen eye. And another laugh is ushered forth as her cheeks grow warm, so warm he could nearly feel a front running over towards him stemming from the blush of her cheeks. He knew his words would only further push her over the edge of bashfulness, and Marcelo was having quite the time trying to contain that grin of his as he looks into her glacial pools. "Think?" He questions with a raised eyebrow, before he offers no more words on the matter.

A sly grin continues to stay across his lips as if permanently placed there in stone. Dark gaze so evidently watching her with interest. He can hear her heart hammering in her chest, and he could not deny the kick he got from stirring such a feeling within her. His face moves closer to hers for just a fleeting moment. "Do what you need to do," he says with silken, tenor tones before leaning against the tree once more. As her hand comes over his chest, Marcelo closes his dark eyes for just a moment, expecting the pain to come but instead he feels a slight tingle to the area. But it would seem the pain would not stay dormant for long and his teeth grit as the pain comes to his shoulder in a wave. Even despite the fact his jaw is clenched, that wolfish grin still seems to shine through, neither wind, rain, nor pain, seemed to be able to wipe it from his tanned face. Chocolate hues only flutter open after he feels the pain pass. Once more her hand passes over, but the pain it would seem has ceased for now as the wound is closed. Good as new.

Those chocolate eyes then turn to find her own as she speaks. "Well, will it at least be a manly scar?" He asks, those dark eyes shining with humor as he jests with the honey haired girl. He suddenly noticed that she too now leans against the tree, those canine senses can almost sense something off about her as those same dark eyes now practically burrow into her own, as if reading her very thoughts that run through her head. His eyes never leave her face, not even as they crave to roam over her body. What? He was young, she was young (and hot) it was natural. "Fine," he respond still watching her, voice low, dropping from a tenor into almost baritone level. A moment of silence elapses between the two before he shits his position and leans forward to turn and come face to face with the girl. He kneels on his knees as his body drifts closer to her own, until a hand lays on each side of the girl, framing her, a smile spreading on his face. "I know what will make you feel better," he says, dark eyes glinting mischievously. Marcelo moves closer to her for just a second, his own bare chest so close to her smaller body, before he suddenly pulls away and offers his hand to the girl to assist her in standing, steading her with his other if necessary. "I'm gonna to take you to a party, Daray," he says grasping her hand to lead the way. He knew of a shop not too far from here with easy to pick locks where he could find himself something to wear, as his boxer briefs would hardly be acceptable attire. The boy with that golden brown hair turns to her and those mocha eyes are so steady as he looks upon the hunter. "Do you trust me?" As if she had a choice.