There is always an unbridled violence shifting within Menkhet. At times it overflows, the tendrils of chaotic nature reaching into Nyteshade’s very chest and sending him into a frenzy. It was a side effect of his lifestyle with Blackthorne for he tended to react to what was going on around him the same as others, only amplified. Where his father seemed to push, push, push, Nyteshade swung between pushing and taking, never quite the same. Power did not mean much to him in the form of rank or title but in praise, in worship, in… well, something. Matianak had planted a seed in his mind as a youth that he was the embodiment of the Shade, a god of some sort that apparently Underidge seemed to think was exclusively his, and at times Nyteshade felt as if he was something entirely different than other wolves. Stronger, greater, potent.

At others, he was simply a boy running with a girl, plotting the murder of another wolf.

Menkhet responds to his touches by closing in to him at times, eager for more. She must feel the same as him, that rush of possession and pride. What would Blackthorne think of his imprint? She was strong, a volcano among hills, and oh so very wicked. Nyteshade figured his father would hate her for it. She was not the type to scrape and bow and preen and no doubt the Darkbringer would consider her a threat to his hold over Nyteshade.

What Blackthorne had not yet realized was Nyteshade was not beholden to him. He stuck around only because he wanted to, because he had been bored and was fascinated at picking apart the other male and his own self discernment.

The change in Menkhet is met with a wild, boyish grin as he follows her lead. Their steps shift from rambunctious to prowling, his own jerky movements quieting at the graceful stalking of her own. As she crouches, so does he, his lean body pressing lightly up against her side as his eyes stare down at the female, methodical. Savathun’s voice has one ear twitching in her direction. ”I’m not the crafty one,” he lies, because Nyteshade was crafty indeed though his hunts were of a far more personal sort. ”I prefer to go straight for the prey.” He turns his head towards her with a mean smile. ”They have more time for fright when they see you coming.” And wasn’t the taste of fear the best?