09-20-2011, 07:49 PM
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Nondescript 3 year old gray wolf; scars on his left flank. Feel free to attack him whenever.[/html]
Each high-trotting step was taken with pride that bordered—nay, surpassed—into cockiness. His head was high, ears erect, tail waving in a timber and black-brushed tail behind him. Why would he be afraid? Packs didn’t scare him. He had managed to steal from many, and even mate with one of the alpha’s daughter’s in the last one. It had been a narrow escape though; Papa had found them while his knot kept them bound, and only a frantic wretch on his part had saved him from death. A scar, jagged and toothy, marked that adventure.
But he was lucky. Hampton had always been lucky. Born into a pack, he was fed right, raised right, and generally had no trauma until his own father kicked him out. Granted he deserved to be kicked out, but still. So it had been a loners life, unable to force his way into a pack, unable to find one that would put up with him. Arrogant and unwilling to bend to leadership, he had never been able to stay for long. Long enough to mate with a broad, at least, he chuckled to himself. Maybe he’d find another one here.
The pack scent was clear enough, but it smelled peculiar. He dropped his head and quickly learned what he needed to know, a male alpha, a female who had recently given birth, and several other males. There were girls, though. Young girls. Oh how wonderful. His groin tightened at the thought of being able to deflower a girl before the alpha could. Wouldn’t that piss him off. A louder, cocky laugh sounded as he lifted his leg to urinate over one of the dominant scents.