There was a sniff at the air, a revelation that there was a scent aside from the smell of smoke in the air; at first Razekiel cared little, shrugging and rolling his shoulders as if there was not a care in the world. After all, he'd yet to fully meet half of the fellow clan members and most of their smells were anything but recognizable and appealing to the senses. His mind wandered; where had he left the sign he was dancing around with that morning? It had been an anti-war sign, one that earned him the worst of looks among his fellow members. Hell, if anyone was going to promote peace, why not he? And the others would get used to it. Razekiel was a creature of peace. That was final.
The scent in the air became increasingly obvious. It had a strange foreignness to it, one that Razekiel was oddly -- almost instinctively -- put on edge by. The prince could barely recognize it as Dahlian, and understandably at that. He smirked a little to himself, knowing that the stranger -- if they were still alive -- should have known better than to run amok on Inferni land. There was no way they would get past the bloodthirsty coyotes, of course.
The next thing he knew, he had jumped to his feet and stumbled backward in dodging a charging wall of Dahlian; Razekiel gaped in his typical clueless fashion, but no thought process entered his mind. Wolf, his eyes told him. Dahlian, they told him next. Dahlia had raped his mother. Wolves had raped his mother. Wolves. Jowls parted, a snarl rising from the depths of his throat; no exchange ensued, no warnings or offerings of peace from the supposed hippie. The prince of deceit simply poised himself and soon was charging himself, claws and talons extended, white daggers of the jaw oozing and aiming immediately for the neck.
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