<font color=430000 face=georgia size=1>YOU SHALL KNOW ME BY THE TRAIL OF BLOOD</font>

He lays in the remnants of his most recent, and admittedly highly successful, conquest, the crimson sludge of the feral hog still warm against the callous and worn pads of his paws. A grotesque swatch of it is painted across the broad expanse of his chest, pulling the heinously coarse fur into a hundred tiny spires. Truly, this wading pool of lifeblood and a macabre, bare cage of bones left to bleach beneath the tyranny of the oppressive summer sun is all that remains as testament that there had once been life here. Once, but no longer.

The reddened slab of his tongue squelches from behind its boney cage, lapping haphazardly at the small morsels of viscera that cling so diligently to his still-dripping jowls. Cords of crimson saliva drip sickeningly upon the sodden earth at his paws, an ever-present side-effect of his particular malformation. He rises, unwilling to linger in the midst of his self-made bloodbath despite his quite pronounced desire to do so simply because the fragrance of blood freshly spilled arouses every facet of his primal self. However, his desire to remain in this aromatic utopia is eclipsed just slightly by the inconvenient truth that he may well have unwanted company in the near future. This was not to speak to any presumed inability on his behalf to disperse this loathsome interruption, but such violent physical exertion on a binged stomach was ill-advised. And thusly, he did not linger.

The thicket he enters bears an irksome carpet of brittle twigs, a troublesome obstacle to the traversing hunter; however, in his gorged state Abraxus harbors no irritation for this minor setback, choosing simply to barrel onwards without regard for the ruckus that heralds his every step. Far greater a distraction awaits him as a fragrance curls easily into every sensor of his olfactory, igniting a memory long since driven dormant by the merciless passing of time and his own apathetic approach to keeping them. The monolithic beast has not returned out of some misplaced and useless attempt to rekindle what once had been, for he is hardly the type of soul to do so, and as such he has made no move to unearth memories of those who had known him all of those years long since passed. This particular individual, though, might prove an amusing distraction until he finds himself ready to be rid of her.

The twig bows to his insurmountable heft, the resulting crack echoing cacophonously off of the surrounding flora. Her words have the knotted flesh of his face twisting into something that could only have been the most heinous likeness of an actual grin, small ribbons of saliva already dangling precariously from the gaping hole in his mouth as he approaches her, paying no heed to the growl that echoes from within. When he finally speaks, his deep baritone intonation is as chilling to the ears as his face must surely be to the eyes. �I could ask you to do the same with your big, loud, and disturbing mouth� Harridan.�

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