He didn't do well laying around. Nor did he do well sitting. The brute was almost always moving, his dark paws like death to the foliage that littered the ground. When the body moves forward, the mind moves with it. He felt the crunch of leaves and could only imagine the images of crunching bone between his jaws. There is always the most primal of instinct that lives within wolves. The instinct to kill. It was driven do hard through a lupine's very soul. It was undeniable. It was a lust that never went away, never stopped its torment and rage upon the body.

His split lip raises as he nares come to drink the chilled air. On his march of death he did catch an undeniable scent. No new death escaped his nares. It was like a sweet scent of flowers and female musk. He craved the very smell, rolled in it at times to cover himself in such pleasantries, a thing only he could enjoy with his mind so twisted from birth. It is a luscious scent reptilian suffering. He is drawn to it like moth to flame, a mixture of blood and ink appearing before the carcass like a ghost out of thin air.

His nose falls to the corpse, sniffing it intently as he desires to bring its whole remains to his throne, and certainly he would have if something else did not invade his very being. Immediately his nose wrinkled, a snarl rippling gently across his thick features as his wild eyes looked upwards. Two scents he did indeed know, welcome members of his pack, but the third? The third was an intruder, something vile, the smell of a male that made his tail whisk up high and his hackles to reach the sky.

Right then as his head lifted, he heard the call of Aithne in the air. His red-tipped ears pricked, his nerves calming a bit with her song. Perhaps he shouldn't be too taken by initial anger and protectiveness of his land, as he knew Aithne aimed to be more, unlike many in this pack. Perhaps she brought him something that would please him.

His legs outstretched as his form of hardened muscle creeps forth through the cold bog. His mood was always one rather unpredictable, even to himself. At times, he makes others come to him, especially if he was not in the mood to go elsewhere. Yet today he was itching for movement, itching to work out his form as he did every day. He was certainly nothing to scoff at, and he certainly showed his carefully crafted form through his naturally short and wirey fur.

It did not take long for him to come upon them. Their trail was hot, like stream of the wet bog on a flashingly cold night. When his eyes came upon them, he slowed, staring down the newcomer as he overlooked every inch of the boy. He did not hesitate to stop only inches from him, his eyes burning towards him as spoke to Aithne.

"What is he doing here? Did he kill one of our prey?" he questioned, then turning his chiseled head towards Aithne with a grin most dark and deep on his cracked maw. "Is he your hostage?" he inquired, already knowing the answer. Perhaps the boy appears to be here on his own will, or perhaps Aithne lures him with a feminine touch. He would not be surprised, and would not doubt of her capabilities as such. Either way- he wanted to know why this boy was here, and why his scent was all over his gator.