It had been a rather unsuccessful day for the mission that he had given himself. Blackthorne moves with a smooth sort of grace in the view of other wolves but when alone he falls into a jittery sort of movement that is likened to that of his father. Yet there is a power in the way he prowls, a curl in the muscles of his chest and shoulders, and a sly tilt to the silver painted muzzle. Blackthorne does not want for looks, truly, and with each season he seems to grow stronger with maturity. Molodian was a feeding ground for him with many new available options with each passing day.

Still, he is not disheartened. His plans had been carefully brewing for a long time now and it would take one piece at a time to put himself into a winning position. Zharko referenced him as commander at times and he reveled in such a term. He is of an intelligent mind, if a bit erratic and odd at times, and was taking his time to align all the players in a chess game of large proportions.

The darkening twilight is lit by the crack of lightning and his charchoal eyes lift up, the light flashing them silver. They are of a clever variety, he had found, for the charchoal overlay often made him almost invisible in the dark but light seemed to change them to silver. The air smelt of burnt wood and electricty fairly crackling through his fur, rising the slender threads as he traipses with a keen eye. Said eye then falls upon the black and white figure of Azariah as she lays draped across a large rock and suddenly he feels a jolt that is not entirely unlike the burning electricity around them.

It burrows down into him, even to the soles of his paw pads, and his entire being seems centered around her. His eyes are of a hungry sort of lust as he prowls towards her, circling the rock with his head poised ever towards her. He does not ask to join her, does not speak yet at all, because he is driven to nearness with this... desire. It consumes him and it also energizes him as he climbs up a small set of rocks until he stands over her, staring down. "So you are mine." The words are crisp, poignant, certain. She is his imprint, she might interpert his words, but in reality he means them exactly as he says them.

Because fate had interevened but Blackthorne had decided.