As the females talk the obsidian wolf simply lays atop the damp, dying grass of his pack, rolling upon his back to allow his limbs to flail as he does, rubbing his back up and against that muddied earth in some sense of primal satisfaction for the task before rolling upon his side once more, a snort flaring from his nostrils as he simply proceeds to stretch in some manner- loosening each and every thickened chord of muscle that gleamed beneath his blackened fur. His mind is given to loath the art of speech, their words no more than sharpened dagger points within his ears as his lips pull briefly back from bloodied fangs in a silent protest of this continued talk. Words are nothing, words are meaningless, words are no more the falsified lies in so many cases and indeed his mind has ceased to truly understand them long ago. To attempt to hear them to perceive them, was a struggle for his mind, one he chose not to engage in unless it was truly necessary, for perhaps, at his core- he is a lazy thing, volatile, violent and yet lazy unless demanded otherwise, unless those of weakness dare seek to insight his wrath upon them as he seeks only to remove those undeserving from the gene pool. For years he has purged the weakness of these lads, for years he has feasted upon the weak, the dying, the infantile to foolish to remain close to the protection of others, his jaws crushing the life from those undeserving to survive and procreate- he alone strengthening the blood of Moladion and yet still they hunt him for it, still they bay like hounds for the ‘crimes’ he has committed against them for they cannot see, for they are all weak of the mind just as Jaylah had proven to be weak of the body this day.
His assault upon her had been made because she would not bow, would not yield, dared to stand dominant before him as he permits none to do and as such his teeth had come against her, torn into her flesh over and over until it was so she had been brought to defeat by his unrelenting force and near berserker rage upon the field of battle. Over and over he had come against her with maddened vehemence until it was the strength of her frame had buckled beneath the weight of his force, until she had been forced to accept defeat as each and every wolf before her has been made to do. For he is unconquerable, untouchable. Perhaps there is no skill to his form within a fight, for he does not battle with careful placement and gathered thoughts, his manner of engagement a feral and unpredictable release of rage in all directions, each attack no more then an opportunistic seizing of his victim, over and over and over until they are simply overcome beneath his repitious assault of violent determination to prove himself surperior. It is as much an advantage as it is disadvantage, so wretched is his mind that he cannot see sense, cannot perceive time, or beauty or self beyond the most basal of understanding. He exists in a world in which he does not truly- exist. He is hunger and desire and need and no else. He holds no treasured memories, cannot think beyond the here and now and perhaps for this….it is he they should pity. For he was created to be perfection upon this earth, the greatest of Kings, father and grandfather and great grandfather Alpha’s before him, Mother and grandmother and great grandmother Queens of their own Kingdoms in turn and yet…..so much Alpha blood, while achieving a look of darkened perfection, a body and form of perfect strength and resilience, a beauty unmatched save for perhaps the Angel line…..his mind had failed to maintain this, to much Alpha blood- too much. Until only dominance existed, until only a need to dominate ruled his mind and destroyed his thoughts beyond all else until instinct alone survived. An experiment gone wrong. A fourth generation Alpha- and with no mind to rule.
One emerald eye rolls from his languid position to fixate upon the defeated female of red and white, his Jaylah, she whom has forever denied to bow to him and yet she whom has seen defeat this day before him, a defeat long coming- since the days of his infancy though he remembers so little of that. She lifts herself, head and tail pulled high in that moment. A moment of utter foolishness. A hissing snarl slides between his bloodied black jaws, form rolling abruptly to stand once more as that darkened, ebony creature strides forward now, a limp still upon his frame and yet his toes have already begun to press against the earth once more, forcing some level of compliance from his limb as it protests. Another growl rises within that ravaged throat as his own head and tail lift, higher then she, dominant- a dominance he has won this day- for she has proven herself weaker, bowed to him in battle and as such he will not tolerate her dominance now- will not permit it. The manner in which She of Scars grasps the jaws of Jaylah is permitted, tolerated, accepted- for she is right to do it. The Nightmare having accepted in some regard- that She of Scars holds power here in this land, though not of him, never of him. Heckles raise like darkened knives upon his spine as he stalks closer and closer still, teeth bared in agitation as he approaches, pressing into her space, pressing her back, forcing her to back from him- reminding her of his dominance above her now before teeth snap at her left shoulder, catching fur and flesh if she has not been swift enough to avoid it.
“No.”
It is a command, an order, a denial of her display in this moment as he circles about her with a rumbling growl, a hissing, vile sound within his damaged throat as he snaps at her a final time, teeth aimed at her face now in warning before he turns away again to seat himself to the side now.
“Where….is…..others?”
His words are fractured, broken, hoarse from within his damaged throat, the male incapable of understanding that she may not understand his words or what he desires from her.
“Where is….Tobias…brothers?”
He knows. They are here, somewhere, within Moladion, he is sure- and he desires to know where, evidently of the belief that Jaylah may know…