01-10-2010, 11:54 PM
671
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He had woke up late today; he was resting more than he should, trying to revitalize himself. He had been training and preparing Inferni for attack heavily in the last few days. His hands were torn, splintered, and bruised—as was his entire body, for the most part. He had been taking it easier the last few days, so he allowed himself a small repose. He worked on the broken mechanism in the 1911 Custom he had once more, the problem still eluding him. With a frown he put it in his back pocket, slipping out of his den and starting on a patrol along the southern borders.
Snake was completely alert—he knew that they were fully embroiled in war now, and there might very well be forward scouts and assailants. He expected it every step he took; his entire body was coiled like a spring. He felt very dangerous—he could draw the knife in its case behind him in a second and he knew how disorient and disable opponents without it as well. Snake was either neutral or unconfident in many areas of living. Fighting was not one of them. He had been born and trained for it—or so he believed.
It was almost like something from a dream when he caught the sharp smell of blood; blood of a coyote. He could tell the difference between the blood of prey and that of predators, and he even believed he could scent that of between lupine and their coyote cousins. Energy began to flow through him, and he immediately began to run towards the source. Snake was not especially swift—he was stocky and strong, which was not good for running speed. He managed to get there just in time, however. Or was it just too late?
There was a strange wolf leaning over a coyote he immediately recognized, despite the horror on her face and the blood that pooled in the snow around her—Vieira Lykoi, the slave of Kaena. He was immediately angry at the Centurion, of all people. Who would have a creature who barely knew how to defend herself (Snake could surmise this from the occasional stints of time he spent with her) go on a border patrol in the middle of a war? One might as well send a lamb straight to the slaughterhouse. Uncharacteristically, anger began to flood through his mind, though it did not stay there. The minute he was close enough, his brain snapped back to fighting. It was so natural to him, as natural as breathing. All he could see was the wolf—his enemy—and nothing else. He barely even recognized that Vieira was there anymore, though the scent of her blood was heavy in his nostrils.
He made no noise; his approach was silent and swift, like the strike of a viper. His first concern was putting distance between his enemy and the victim, and he did that by lowering his shoulder and ramming into the wolf as one might do when trying to bust down a locked door. He tried his hardest to keep his balance, maintaining as much control as he could. Eventually he stood, somewhat shaky, only a foot away from Vieira. He kept himself between her and the wolf and, in a second, he had his right hand dart behind his back and draw his steel army blade from its case.
His brain was in fighting mode, but he was still uncharacteristically angry—he hadn’t been sure it was possible. And yet it was, a fire that licked at him as he focused on responding to whatever the wolf would throw at him. His face even broke its stoic mask, his lips drawing back to reveal a cruel set of teeth. A low growl began to churn in the back of his throat. But he did not strike. He had learned never to strike first—the smartest warrior waited until his enemy was open, and then strike when the iron was hot.
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He had woke up late today; he was resting more than he should, trying to revitalize himself. He had been training and preparing Inferni for attack heavily in the last few days. His hands were torn, splintered, and bruised—as was his entire body, for the most part. He had been taking it easier the last few days, so he allowed himself a small repose. He worked on the broken mechanism in the 1911 Custom he had once more, the problem still eluding him. With a frown he put it in his back pocket, slipping out of his den and starting on a patrol along the southern borders.
Snake was completely alert—he knew that they were fully embroiled in war now, and there might very well be forward scouts and assailants. He expected it every step he took; his entire body was coiled like a spring. He felt very dangerous—he could draw the knife in its case behind him in a second and he knew how disorient and disable opponents without it as well. Snake was either neutral or unconfident in many areas of living. Fighting was not one of them. He had been born and trained for it—or so he believed.
It was almost like something from a dream when he caught the sharp smell of blood; blood of a coyote. He could tell the difference between the blood of prey and that of predators, and he even believed he could scent that of between lupine and their coyote cousins. Energy began to flow through him, and he immediately began to run towards the source. Snake was not especially swift—he was stocky and strong, which was not good for running speed. He managed to get there just in time, however. Or was it just too late?
There was a strange wolf leaning over a coyote he immediately recognized, despite the horror on her face and the blood that pooled in the snow around her—Vieira Lykoi, the slave of Kaena. He was immediately angry at the Centurion, of all people. Who would have a creature who barely knew how to defend herself (Snake could surmise this from the occasional stints of time he spent with her) go on a border patrol in the middle of a war? One might as well send a lamb straight to the slaughterhouse. Uncharacteristically, anger began to flood through his mind, though it did not stay there. The minute he was close enough, his brain snapped back to fighting. It was so natural to him, as natural as breathing. All he could see was the wolf—his enemy—and nothing else. He barely even recognized that Vieira was there anymore, though the scent of her blood was heavy in his nostrils.
He made no noise; his approach was silent and swift, like the strike of a viper. His first concern was putting distance between his enemy and the victim, and he did that by lowering his shoulder and ramming into the wolf as one might do when trying to bust down a locked door. He tried his hardest to keep his balance, maintaining as much control as he could. Eventually he stood, somewhat shaky, only a foot away from Vieira. He kept himself between her and the wolf and, in a second, he had his right hand dart behind his back and draw his steel army blade from its case.
His brain was in fighting mode, but he was still uncharacteristically angry—he hadn’t been sure it was possible. And yet it was, a fire that licked at him as he focused on responding to whatever the wolf would throw at him. His face even broke its stoic mask, his lips drawing back to reveal a cruel set of teeth. A low growl began to churn in the back of his throat. But he did not strike. He had learned never to strike first—the smartest warrior waited until his enemy was open, and then strike when the iron was hot.