Blood on my hands

[Anselm de le Poer]

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-- During his teenage years (months?), he'd done quite a bit of that "spraying anger in every which direction" thing. While the numerous fights that resulted had gotten him a lot of invaluable experience when it came to fighting, he'd eventually come to realise that it was largely senseless. Unfortunately, this had nothing to do with Anselm changing--it had to do with the environment. In his birth pack (and the surrounding region), it was not impractical to assume that everyone you encountered was an enemy--most were. If he had to guess, he'd say about 95%, with the remainder made up of blood relatives. Here, things were quite a bit different. The odds of someone attacking you if you didn't attack first dropped down considerably; he responded accordingly. Less time was spent actually fighting--it was replaced by vigorous training and sparring with his cousin. He had to admit that he liked that hunting here involved the bloodshed of one animal (the prey) and not several more (those that it had to be defended against). Unlike some of the others in Inferni, Anselm had a tendency to judge individuals and individual situations more than a species. Perhaps it was because of his mixed blood, which rendered him less of a target in this culture? Maybe; but he'd take whatever he could get. And here came a surprise--the black beauty spoke with a lovely accent. Something about foreigners captivated him, if only because he'd heard rumours that they cared less about the whole species difference. Weren't things supposedly more sophisticated overseas? Maybe some other wolves from here would be upset to be deemed barbarians, but given the way his life had gone so far, he found it delightfully accurate. Delightful, of course, only because that meant something better might exist somewhere else. A half-smirk, half-smile tugged at the corners of his mouth in response to the content of her question, and he rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "Sometimes it's easier to recognise in others what we know to exist in ourselves," he replied. Indeed, he had plenty of weight on his back: trying to protect Inferni, the hostage from their war, etc. Besides, he figured it sounded better than "you look like hell." Unlike her, however, he was far less inclined to spill his woes to a complete stranger (or maybe anybody at all). Vocalising his concerns and doubts, to him, meant that they were manifesting themselves more fully--something he did not want. In the true spirit of the manly man he was, he'd beat his emotions down and lock them away until he could barely feel them at all. That was how it was supposed to work, right? Regardless, he was fine letting this little meeting be all about her. From the corner of his eye he watched as she stretched out some, following the muscles as they moved and generally appreciating the curves of her body. "So what's troubling you?" he wondered aloud.

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