He, unlike his far more loving brother, had never really viewed his siblings as anything significant. They had lived with him until they were old enough to get away with escaping the den, and at first it had been a joint effort. They might, one day, have all gotten along. However, it hadn't taken long for Andre to begin to believe that he was the sole sibling powerful enough to be worthy of the name Lykoi. Even while his older siblings had the ability to do with theirs what they would, Andre was biding his time, waiting for the fateful day when he would walk on two feet, when he would be able to learn what they did not, simply because he was born of madness. He, like they, was born to two semi-mad parents who had both left little place for themselves in the hearts of the children who hated them (or at least he did) and that had transferred to him.
But his was a different kind of madness. Insanity was not hereditary, but he believed it could be, if need be. It was a disease and, like one, it could spread from the simplest of sources. Andre was already cursed with having developed himself into such a cold being, so absorbed and in love with the thought of tormenting and killing wolves, that it seemed it could not get worse in one so young, but this was not the end of all things; he was also determined that he was the best Lykoi of all, and that he could overthrow all of them with plans and formulas.
Therefore, when he saw his sister on the beach, he was fairly disinterested in her and her false movements. It wasn't until he caught the scent, so absolutely sickening (for he knew it, now) and so strange that he whirled, snarling already with hackles raised, and marched in her direction.
You smell like them,
he accused, growling at a louder volume of sound. Wha' are you doin' here?