There was a certain curiosity he had for Dexter. It stemmed from so many things. He was important to Anselm. Important in strange ways he could not particularly comprehend. It had to do with his sister, and Anselm's constant draw to her. He knew they were blood, Zeltzin and Dexter, and this mattered to Anselm. There was also that day where they spilled the blood of wolf together, and when he led him to Taviora. Such things do not disappear in Anselm's mind. They stick like honey that he does not lap away.

So at times, when he catches the scent of Dexter, he does follow it. He wants to know more, to understand the blood relative of his soul. He does indeed catch the scent of Dexter tonight, and his nose locks on like a bloodhound. Large white paws are not overly quick nor is he slow. He moves at a decent pace but does not rush himself. There is simply no need to rush, no need to exert energy needlessly.

He finds that the scent leads to the Grotto. It is night time, and Anselm's pelt of white is silvered by the touch of light in the sky. The scent of Dexter becomes stronger, and not only that, the scent of blood begins to fill the air. He had heard something distant, although he could not tell what it was through the blowing of the winter wind. He ventures forward without hesitation though, until his orange slashed eyes see the massacre that lay with Dexter.

Anselm does not hide himself. He does not fear Dexter, if he should or not. He simply steps away from the darkness and into the light, head lowered to catch more of the scent. By the time Anselm arrived, one wolf was already limp in the mouth of Dexter. Anselm looked over the scene in silence and only the occasional flick of his ghostly tail. There were two dead, and Anselm did not know what occurred. He only knew what he saw- one dead wolf on the ground, ripped open, and another in Dexter's mouth. He could not speculate on what particularly happened. It was not uncommon for others to steal prey, or perhaps Dexter killed them both. Anselm certainly was not about to leave.

Anselm moved forward. He moves with an air of strength and confidence many strive to have. He is not push over nor is he aggressive at this moment- although he will do what is needed if Dexter turns his fangs to him, although he does not think he will. Certainly Dexter must be exhausted after a struggle, and Anselm looks to him and sees the wound on his muzzle. The white ghost steps to the dead wolf, inspecting it with his eyes. It appeared that the heart was missing, perhaps consumed. Anselm only gave a half assed smirk before he spoke, the scent of Dexter distinctly missing while the strangers scent was strong on the body.

"Weakness- killed," he says in his accent so thick and heavy with Latin, that perhaps it was may be difficult for Dexter to understand. His eyes shoot up from the dead body to Dexter, staring him down in his silent curiosity.