Lysander didn’t understand how he’d attracted the presence of such a narcissistic creature, as it prowled towards his nocturnal being. He wasn’t interested in the religious looking male, and showed it by averting his eyes from the splendour of the baron. Lysander didn’t regard this guy as important, and with a glower, he returned his challenging gaze. Lashing his pallid tail, he stood up, claws flexing lazily as he stretched. The thought of cannibalism disgusted him, but he showed little acknowledgement of the dangers. It wasn’t that he didn’t prioritise it, but until one of these beasts reared it’s ugly head, he wasn’t going to be fussed about brainless rumours. Turning his attention back to the crimson-slashed baron, if it was fit to call him that, Lysander’s eyes roamed over the arrogant wolf that had approached him, and once again, my male slid back down onto his haunches. He wouldn’t offer a reply just yet, and licking his lips over the blackened gums that rimmed his mouth, Lysander overlooked his spectator. He had little to offer the male in a history and was forever a procrastinator. He lifted one fleshy paw to his jaws, a pink tongue slithering from his wan, gaping jowls. Shutting his eyes momentarily, he began to make his fur slick with his saliva languidly, showing his boredom stiffly. After replacing his appendage to the ground, the imprint of his embellishment.

Finally opening those steely eyes, Lysander regarded the male with disinterest. His eyes flicked over the baron that still waited for him to fill air space, having assaulted Lysander’s ears with his own vocals. “You think of yourself highly, yes? I assume you do, otherwise you wouldn’t be attempting to direct me like I am in debt to you.” came Lysander’s solid reply. He didn’t exactly beat about the bush, and was outspoken in his opinions. Usually, it created enemies by his behaviour and wit, but my male just shrugged it off. If you couldn’t have a point of view, why bother being around to witness a scene? The ivory male then decided to answer the second part of Azrael’s speech. After all, he might be rude, but he would give the meddlesome ‘god’ an answer, even if it was discourteous. “I do not care for such hearsay. Cannibals can gnaw on me to their heart’s content, I don’t have any family to mourn over me, so my death wouldn’t cause any sorrow.” he injected, with a less surly tone. He didn’t have anybody to yearn for his presence, to lament over his death. His imprint was unknown, his mate had suffered a horrific death, and their son had been executed by the meteor.

“I will find a pack at some stage, however, I am not a pack man. I prefer to be the loner that nobody really speaks to because they’re classed as strange. Which is why I query your presence, and the way you speak to me when you hold little authority over a free mind…” he said, tilting his head but his expression was vacuous. Being morose had turned him into a man that felt his age, with every joint ache and memory. Even though he was still considered young at his seven years, Lysander felt like a senile, ancient dog dressed in the armour of an inexperienced, spirited average aged baron. It didn’t suit him, and he showed this with his sullen and bitter behaviour, no matter whom he was speaking to. His tones were ice cold to the opposition, icicles stabbing at anyone and everyone’s ego. But Lysander didn’t care. He never did. And probably never would.

7 YEARS• 33inch 100lbs• black fur