Peter Walker
Portrayed by Nathaniel Arcand
Full name Peter Walker (orig. Peter Stone)
Birthday January 11, 1928
Species Human (former Wolf-Shifter)
Age 81 (appears in 40s)
Height 5'11"
Weight 179 lbs
Eyes Brown
Hair Black
Power Real Ultimate
Parents Benjamin and Alecto Stone (deceased)
Siblings Sisters (twins, unknown to character), Nephews and Nieces (unknown to character)
Occupation Hacker/Computer Science Engineer

To the Quileute Tribe, Peter Stone was a wolf shifter, legally Killed In Action in 1945, a soldier of the United States Army in World War II. As luck would have it, he didn't die. Instead, he has moved through the world with his close friend Klara for fifty years, making a solid income as a mercenary hacker under a number of evolving handles, or as traveling telecommunications engineer Peter Walker. Long after the lupine magic left his blood, he continues to work, hoard electronics, play, and age with debatable grace.

European supernaturals may even remember him having done work as a private investigator working occasionally even in cooperation vampires to protect the secrecy of their underworld: a handy mortal to have around.


'You can still matriculate here when you get back,' is what Dean Forsythe at Port Angeles told him, bright with patriotic approval.

The information bore no actual weight in whether or not fifteen-year-old Peter Stone was going to illegally enlist in the United States Army for the Second World War, of course. Joining World War II was not something a young man did if his priority was the circumstances of his return home. Nevertheless, those words changed everything, defined a certain line in the sand, one that derived as much from racial differences as from filial love. His father, who had already been reluctant to participate in enough fraud and deception to let his precocious offspring stray as far as college or the police academy, didn't want him to go. The battlefields, Mr. Stone said, were no place for a wolf. Those given the gift of change weren't supposed to turn to a career in killing humankind, but protecting it.

It would be an uncomfortable fireside thought in La Push for years: that maybe if Peter had killed more vampires, it would have gone out of his system.

Peter had been the last of the Shifters to manifest in the Quileute era's wave of retaliation against vampire kind. They say that every generation has its war, but the Stone boy had been born to the perplexing cusp between the one waged by the supernatural with its stakes in souls and tribal magic, and the one between humans, complicated by politics, machines, and the salt of basic moral decency.

He'd been a brilliant pupil, of course, but also a faithful tribesman. A respectful son, a skilful hunter, both as a man and then as a wolf. However, in the decrescendo of seasons that the other shifters spent in grateful rest, reacquainting themselves with songs made of actual lyrics and hunting bows, imprinting, shedding their pelts in favor of mortal domesticity, their appetites for battle long since slaked, Peter was left unsatisfied. As his pack brothers looked forward to fading gracefully into domesticity and old age, he was left wrestling with the world of possibilities available to an ambitious fifteen-year-old who looked twenty. He hung around the police station, hero-worshipped the young Quileute Homicide Detective who'd gone to D.C. to pursue his career, befriended veteran communications oficers from the Great War, and considered college-level courses which promised excitement, fascinations, challenges, and—

Timeline and Current Plots



Despite that most of Peter's inner-life is characterized by a deep, soul-strangling abiding regret, he isn't an outwardly melancholy fellow in the slightest.

Day-to-day, Peter is an eccentric man-child, characterized by a honking laugh, an eccentric interest in small collectibles, guns and gadgetry, and cluttering together the most ingeniously affordable of bargain bin home theater rigs. His time in the United States Army has left him with a cheerful affinity for physical humor and toilet jokes, as well as the certain misappropriated sense of comfort, that most things you're going through as a civilian now, aren't nearly as bad as how things were at war back then.

Though he prefers his own company or those of computers and would probably be wearing inch-thick glasses for myopia by now were it not for the advantages of shifter physiology, Peter is not often particularly socially awkward. What he lacks in singular passion for conversation is compensated for by rabid intellectual curiosity. He enjoys tangible accomplishments, keeping busy, and rewards proportional to effort. He is a big fan of mathematics, logic, and many aspects of post-industrial 21st century cities. He's thrown himself wholeheartedly into the era.

There's a peculiar materialism and propensity for comfortable living in him, partially endemic to the culture of first world nations, and partially a symptom of old trauma. It isn't merely an enjoyment of having 'nice things.' Peter Walker only really trusts himself when the going is relatively easy. Yes, it was practical necessity that compelled him to kill humans and consume their flesh. However, it's left him with a shakey sense of his ability to manifest wisdom in major crisis or retain moral fiber under pressure.


Back when he could shift, he kept the wolf and human portions of his life compartmentalized to a distinct degree, adhering very precisely to a personal code of conduct. Habit stuck even when the magic faded from him. Ingrained, he holds meticulous rules about everything from management of his finances to giving other humans a panickily wide berth when he's out with Klara-the-wolf. His relationships with humans tend to be pleasant but largely distant, reliable without making promises of an intimate sort. He enjoys academic challenges, but tends to lose his nerve at personal ones. He's an old dog, and despite his unrelenting appetite for learning, he is strangely resistant to learning truly new tricks.

He is still motivated more by justice and 'the good fight' than he cares to be conscious of.


Name Relation Notes
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Additional Photos


Watch me heave up what I've sown.
I'm made of peanuts, not of shells.
God spares a quality in himself,
Uniquely designed,
But we can't help ourselves

So— why?
I made the face that bugs you.
I won't design conversation around you.
I made the face that bugs you,
Spyglass scans the field

Hold my hand, I feel a chill in here.

Chevelle, "Mia"
Gravitate spacewards
Find a home for the head.
From my basement
No darkness ever left.

Some days are playful
Making play faces,
But we will not let it through,
The darkness and the sense
Of being born to lose

This is the night, this is the sound.
Here comes the warm machine.
Such a war machine

Bush, "Warm Machine"

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