It is all he needs to assure himself, those first splashes of crimson heat that spill from the jaws of the other male as the sharpness of his fangs scrape into fur and flesh and offer the heated, thickened reward to his teeth and tongue, instigating a rage more feral, a need far stronger, a desire that runs more thickly to feast and consume upon the other male who seeks to so foolishly come against him. It is this that makes him dangerous, it is this, this rage, this unstoppable need to feed that simply sees him emerge from battle victorious again and again. He lacks self-preservation, lacks any sense to conserve himself, driven by a bloodlust he cannot control, the horrific side-effect of blood simply gone bad, too much dominant blood forced into one body, Alpha upon Alpha lacing the lines of his veins until this mix became entirely to potent. Resulting in he, this nightmare, this plague. Sharp fangs slice at his own muzzle in the fray that follows, the other male rearing back, aiming to force his own fangs down before the scent of another permeates through the blood and heat that already lays so thickly. It is female this one, her form lunging, her body reeking of the scent of youth that grows heady only when they are given to carry others inside. This he understands and indeed within that more she becomes a better target, a morsel far more tasty for he has feed upon as such before. They are vicious, angry things so rarely worth his effort, yet the prize is great, to take her is to take the ones within, tasty, tender treats and ripened flesh.

His forelegs brace firmly, muzzle torn free of the jaws of Beowulf, adding only further scars to his already ravaged form, so many marks hidden beneath the thickness of his pelt as he throws his weight backwards, avoiding the fangs of the black and red female, dead, devoid eyes falling upon the scarlet that marks her frame like the meal he so readily seeks, saliva running more thickly from his jaws. He does not see a female, he does not see a living being, he sees only a meal, a meal already injured, her marks a symbol of weakness and nothing more. He presumes already that she bleeds, that another has torn her open, that she will be an easy meal. The male is forgotten as he fixates on this new target, this Ishtar, jaws parting to release a snarl of sorts, the foam upon his lips stained pink from blood and saliva as his tongue rushes against it, symbolizing his hunger once more when another pain is felt, lancing into his hind limb before he rips it aside, whirling instantly upon the creature whom has dared to strike his flesh, Beowulf’s fangs grazing against his shoulder as he turns his back to both he and Ishtar in a flurry of whirling aggression that sees him crash down with horrific force upon Ruvindra alone. Jaws part in maddened fury aiming for her head, her face, seeking to savage the flesh upon it before that muscle and power gathers once more, the animal lunging again in a second, sudden attack, jaws snapping wildly at face, ear, eye, cheek or muzzle. She is old and the old are weak, less agile, less powerful, they react slower and as such his attacks become an onslaught towards her again and again as she leaps back from his first attack- yet not far enough. His jaws snap a final time, ears flicking at the sound from behind. Tobias does not forget. He never forgets and this one he knows, the towering, hulking dark female is foreign to his gaze, yet her scent lingers, teasing at the tendrils of his mind as he slides back and away from Ruvindra, from Beowulf, his muzzle and shoulder are bitten, his hind-leg scrapped and yet he feels them not, cares not as his dark form eases back, the red of his blood lost and drying in the thickness of his pelt as he turns upon this- Stella.

His heckles lift still, his lips remain parted to reveal the blood-stained fangs beneath and yet he glides that single pace towards the dark one who snarls and snaps as his form brushes against her own, coiling around her like a dark embrace, a gesture so bizarre, so detached from this moment as she stands snarling at the others and yet it is clear enough, it is- possessive. This is his thing, his female to be had, a rumbling growl coiling within his throat like a ravaged purr of satisfaction in her presence as he comes to stand beside her, to face the trio of wolves who snarl and savage with weakened resolve before him. Stella is as he, those like he are not for eating, no, no, they are for keeping. This pause is only momentary, this space, this moment, nothing more then lapse in the carnage that is to follow before another snarl ravages free of his damaged throat, the sound a near terrible roar before he pivots abruptly, his stride a single, silent, deadly lunge- at Adalmund. He has not forgotten the child, not failed to see it slinking away, trying to force the others back. He will not fight against a group- no, his mind will not allow it, recoils violently from it and the lesson he learned in the jaws of Heyel that day. A group is not to be fought- not alone. Yet he is alone no longer and he will make a final try for this child, a prize for his efforts, though indeed it if appears there will to live grates against him to entirely he will simply slip away with Stella this day, if only they, these wolves of Iromar, should prove entirely to troublesome.