Here you are~

The territory to the southeast of his new home was a strange, wondrous place. Beast's Grin, he thought it was called; something along those lines. Vivica had particularly enjoyed the long run down a strip of beach, her mane catching in Daemon's face as it whipped in the wind. He'd since modified her cloak, adding two straps on either side of her neck that he could hold on to when riding her. She didn't seem to mind; her wounds had healed nicely, and she ran like the wind, now, rather than limping painfully as she used to.

They'd reached what looked like a boat. Daemon thought it looked like one, because he'd never actually seen a boat bigger than one that would hold a few people at most. This one would carry hundreds, maybe thousands; Daemon didn't like to see his ideals shattered into little pieces. So he ignored the fact that it was a boat, and looked at it instead as a new place to explore--and to perhaps get new, interesting treasures. As they came closer to the ship, Daemon slipped from Viv's back, patting her nose gently and drifting away.

The ship, on the outside, looked rather beat-up and dull. He climbed in a hole at the bottom, and began slowly making his way up through the ship, finding riches everywhere he turned--it was only his depreciation for the humans of old and how much they'd valued these things that kept him from scooping them up into his bag and carting them away for study.

Daemon wasn't a fighter, not really. Even before, when the gentlest touch didn't send tingles of feeling running all over his body, he hadn't been much for wrestling. But now, especially, he didn't like to fight. Everything in him said to lay down and let the upset male--he could see it was a male, out of the corner of his eye, as he spun to miss the attack--calm down. But he didn't like being attacked. And one didn't grow up with thirteen rowdy siblings without picking up a few things about defending themselves. He bared his teeth in a snarl, his hood falling back to reveal his bald head and face--he'd not worn his bandages today, feeling this would be a short trip--and a monstrous sound came out of his ruined throat, almost a growl but more of a roar from the sheer force required to make the noise that loud; it echoed off the walls, and he nearly startled himself out of his angered state, though he wasn't nearly as fickle-minded as all that.

It was only a wolf. Not that big a threat, his first thought came; but then some part of him remembered Lucivar, in his Lupus form, and reconsidered. Though Lucivar had been a monster of a wolf in all his forms, and this one was nothing compared to that, Daemon still thought he ought to be wary, and instead of launching his own attack, fell back, his teeth still bared and his eyes glittering but still feeling, somewhere in his heart, that he didn't want to be in this.

Daemon didn't like scaring others; it was why he hid his face when he was meeting new people, and why he hid his horrid welts beneath bandages and cloaks; he didn't want people to be afraid of him. But sometimes...sometimes they should be. Sometimes he was nothing more than a wild, feral creature, and sometimes he was dangerous. There was a reason to fear him. There hadn't been for a long time, but Lucivar still bore the scars he'd given from after the fire--and he still had the mark of the forests on him. He was not a civilized Luperci; he was a monster. And a monster he would stay, until he learned to control himself--which was still a long, long time away.

Daemon could, at the very least, see when someone was a threat--and when they weren't. As the wolf curled himself into a submissive position--and Daemon didn't even think to believe it was done willingly, with the way he'd attacked without provocation before--Daemon's tense shoulders relaxed, and his own snarl faded, his eyes brightening until he looked on the other with an almost pup-like curiosity. He'd never seen a wolf not in their Optime form--it was strange to look upon one now. He automatically assumed that they were in Lupus because they couldn't shift, and it was perhaps the only conclusion he'd drawn correctly in his time here. He sank, slowly, to the floor, his rump hitting the sumptuous carpet and his legs stretching out in front of him as he watched the wolf with a wary eye. But his roar seemed to have done the trick; it didn't look as though he would attack again.

That left him to look curiously about the ship once more, his eyes catching on glittering treasures and soft, luxurious feathers, some furs and other things--what a rich place this must have been. Place for power, He thought, and began rising to his feet again, his hand tracing one wall--Rotting, he tsk'd; Poor thing,--as he made for the stairs.