Vark struggled to keep his fuming rage quiet. He also gagged silently on the stench. He briefly wondered if the coyotes deliberately rolled in their own waste. Vark’s ears were so flat against his skull, they were starting to ache. His lips were drawn taut back across his gums in a silent snarl of rage and bloodlust. More Dahlians appeared out of the foliage, at the dame rate coyotes appeared. Vark could tell by the extra scents adding to the turmoil to the smells in the air. As Vark inched closer, He realised that most of the combatants there, if not all of them, were unaware of his presence. As he watched, the first coyote, an old female, by the smell, advanced confidently towards the mother and child. Even through his severely impaired vision, he could see the coyote’s confident smirk. Fear and bloodlust was incredibly strong in the air, and Vark closed his eyes, trying to focus. Some of the fear was his, and he wouldn’t let it give him away yet. When he opened his eyes, the battle and started.
Vark licked his nose nervously. He hadn’t ever been in such a violent or serious fight, but something deep inside him grew. It revelled in the fear, in the rage, and in the need for spilt blood. Images of his parents suddenly whipped through his head. His father’s bloodied face. His mothers howl of rage and pain. The fire. Suddenly, Vark felt angry. Sure, he had been angry before, but now it was like he had found a whole new level of anger. Of Fury. Vark heard a huge and deep bellowing roar of rage, and realised it was his own. Vark cannoned out of the shrub like a lightning bolt, throwing his now considerably more muscular frame straight for the old coyote’s throat.
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