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

So still was he, so much akin to the tranquility of the slumbering or the abject rigidity of the deceased, that birds had begun to flitter about him as if completely unaware of his lingering presence, so oblivious in their naivet� that the stroke of a delicate wing tickled at the fleshy bulb of his nose. They whistled and cavorted about, shattering whatever blessed silence he might have been privy to with the final chords of their calamitous melody before the instinctive journey to a warmer climate was to commence. The spiteful and merciless hand of winter would be upon them soon, her wretched icy talons dug into the earth to rob it of whatever fruitfulness might have been alluded to in earlier months. Even as he sat here, shaded and concealed by foliage that had long ago bartered away its greenery in favor of the bloodied crimson and burnt oranges of the season, miniscule flakes swooped aimlessly down unto his nose only to forfeit their life to the warmth of his flesh. Abraxus did not mind this, though, nor has he ever troubled himself with favoring one season over any other; they would come regardless of his desires, the matter itself quite trivial.

However even this small reprieve proves temporary, the behemoth driven to action by the simplistic need to quench his nagging thirst. Expelled from the tree line with relative ease, he trudged easily through the field, instinctually alert as any worthy predator would have been, but nonetheless entirely aware that there were exceptionally few things that might pose any manner of physical threat to him. He was far larger than the majority of his species, and yet even his unquestionably adept physique was not the apex of his predatory might. The true homage to all that he was lay in the dimpled and knotted flesh of his partially destroyed face: the missing jowl that had provided him the most macabre of smiles forevermore, the elongated chords of scar tissue that spread farther than fur, and the clouded grey eye that swiveled about so eerily in its socket.

Abraxus pays the younger wolf at the water�s edge little heed, having analyzed and discarded him with the haste and efficacy that can only come with experience. The youngster�s peculiar and inappropriate display of aggression, however, has his mangled ears swiveling dutifully as his monolithic head stoops to the lake�s rippling surface. His reaction is not immediate, for clearly the notion that this cub poses him some threat does not even kiss his mind with its absurdity. Instead, Abraxus slowly cranes his disheveled head, mismatched eyes falling heavily upon the youngster who stares off into the field as if the answers to all of his quarries lay there strewn about for him to unearth. �You know,�, the words come garbled, deep and rumbling, �growling at nothing might cause some to question your sanity.� The shadow of a smile tugs grossly at his mangled lips, a smile that never once reaches the cold depths of his eyes.

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