((I apologise to the both of you for the shortness and lacking quality of this post. My post list is at nearly 20 and as such I am attempting to reply to as many as I can to get it back under control. The next post shall be far more sufficient))


If he is even aware of his victory it surely does not show, the blackened male sodden and mud covered as he makes his way back to his pack lands, movement less then perfect, each step hindered by the bruising and punctures of his left hind and yet he pays it little heed- mind seemingly oblivious to such wounds as moves across the open fields of his home with a single minded determination. There is no pride to his darkened steps, now joy or delight in the throngs of victory for to his mind there is nothing else- he has never yet seen a true defeat and as such offers no reaction to what has always occurred. He does not bow, he cannot, will not and once more he had simply returned victorious as always. He allows the approach of She of Scars, a soft rumble of greeting offered and yet no more, her tongue sweeping at his wounds before he simply shakes. He cannot bring her harm, the demons of his mind rebelling against such a thing, resulting in no more then a frustrated mind that can find no release from it’s inner torments. He has become tolerable of his imprint- because he must, remains content in her presence though he moves to brush past her now, laving her to speak with the one he has brought, his possession, his belonging- his mind assured of this now.

Blackened limbs carry his muddied, bloodied form to stand behind She of Scars, hulking frame lowered suddenly to the earth, head inclined back to allow red streaked jaws to part, toungle sliding along his injured limb in some basal attempt to relieve the discomfort it offers. He has never before held the touch of a healer, survived simply because he must, because instinct demands it of him and in time all such injuries will heal once more to return him to his form of darkened perfection- even without the aid of a healer he will not permit in his presence. He rests because he is tired, licks at his limb because it stings, mind fixated upon basal tasks that require of it little more then the basic instinct of wolf as he reclines. His dominance has been assured this day, his mind content in it’s victory, unconcerned by the proximity of his Jaylah in this moment for he has proven his strength this day and anticipates no further assault. Though each eye of reptilian green rests upon her still, ever watchful, slicing back towards her only to bare teeth should she seek to approach him once more in a silent command he seeks obeyed by she whom he owns this day.

He cannot understand the words that are exchanged any more then he can perceive the self-pitying laughter that exudes from the lips of Jaylah, his mind ignoring such things, uncaring as to their cause and reason as his form proceeds to roll suddenly, the demonic creature and unconquerable nightmare rolling upon his back in a display very near puppyish in it’s seeming light heartedness before he falls softly to his side to simply rest. Content, in this moment, it would seem- to ignore Jaylah entirely, offering both females the turn of one ear and little more. He will allow She of Scars to play with his toy, permit her presence and yet that is all. Jaylah is his belong, his ability to share a limited thing, though for now it would seem he is content to allow She of Scars to do as she will with his newest toy.