the winds of change had sown the seeds of distruction once again.

it is not unlike our black and red wolf to wander far from his pack, he doesn't need to in the first place, his pack had been well situated on a very lush stream full of all types of prey animals, there weren't to many there that it was over populated on either side of the spectrum. But he had done what he could for them, a travelling assassin doesn't stay in one place to long anyway. He'd been raised in the ways of the slow hunt, to be patient, expect the unexpected and to go with the flow. Looking at him you wouldn't expect to much from him. The darkend warrior doesn't stand the way a warrior should stand, he doesn't smell like blood and dirt, he only smells of the freshness of the day. Of lillies and grass, of the nights song still riding on the very wind that brought him here. Again, he doesn't know why he's here. The trip wasn't to long or short, it wasn't fraught with demons and angels. Not in the way some would assume anyways. He wasn't plagued by the voices of those that had lost their lives to him, he took a much more spiritual outlook on such things. The dead were exactly that, dead. No longer living, no longer able to do the things they had once done.

A soft wind rustles the long grass around his body as he slowly slips between them like a lover between the sheets, so silken smooth, his body is lean, long and hard, muscles corded around bones and creating a sophisticated appearence. Almost princely if only he could come to think of himself as thusly, but he's not. He never was and never would be someone's prince charming, not even a scantly clad maiden in distress could pull his eyes away from the job at hand. Or so he would like to think. He's never met a problem he couldn't solve... and by problem we mean target. His breathing is slow, almost non-existant as he watches the prey before him. A small fox. The soft red fur of the other caninae ruffles more than his own short fur, it could be considered adorable by some, a tiny verson of themselves perhaps, but Beowulf doesn't see it as family, nor as adorable and cute. Those blood orange eyes so much more like the colors of fall with their dark reds, rusty browns and vibrant oranges strewn about his eye sockets.

When the time was right, the wind blowing towards him and away from his prey he moves, paws placed easily on the ground, softly, like a whisper of a dream, quiet even. His eyes never once leaving the animal before him, ears turning this way and that like a slow teleglobe, searching the surrounding area for foreign sounds but none reach them. Before the animal can think for it's self, that this might be the worst mistake it had ever made comming out of it's den today, he is off like a shadow. Lean legs carry him over the body high grass that hides him from his prey's view. It is like a dance, a musical perhaps, as he swiftly takes the game away from the little creature and clamps his teeth around the creatures neck. It didn't even know what hit it until the light left it's eyes. Loosening his jaws he let the creature fall to the ground with a soft near inaudible thud. Nothing, not a sound. No squeak, squeal or squak from the little fox.

His lips move in silent prayer. A thanks to the creator. Forgivness from the fox for it's life in return to sustain the lone black wolf. It takes a few seconds, long enough for the scent of blood to rise up on the breeze and float past him into the surrounding area. Where this is, he doesn't know. Only that his belly tells him it's time to eat and so he does. Ripping fur from flesh, spitting it out on the ground in a pile, when the fleshy pink is shown he digs in. When all is over and done with the whole thing must have taken a half hour for him to devour. If he was a human he might have hung the tail around his neck like a trophy but he isn't and so he wont. Leaving the remains of the fox behind he enters into a shallow stream to clean the filth from his face and paws, his chest though black is stained with the blood of his meal and so he wades in a bit deeper to get what he can off of himself. It doesn't do well to show the world what you really are does it? and so he waits, on the edge of the stream to see just who or what will show it's self to him. He is patient and yet he is on his game, never letting that wall of his down, guard hairs on edge no matter where he is or what he's doing.