Word Count: 812

War. The word rattled the pale-gold wolf's very bones, shaking him to the core. Sicarus had never engaged in war before. Though he'd studied the long and bloody tales of the Crusades, he knew that actually participating in war, actually fighting for something his leader believed in, was an entirely different thing. Sicarus was not a soldier; his training had granted him defensive skills and the ability to fight, but Sicarus's use of these skills were limited to one-on-one combat, encounters where he had the definite element of surprise—the Italian wolf was a creeper, sliding through the shadow of the city, disguising himself in dank alleyways and creeping through the foul underbelly of the city. There were prostitutes, whores aplenty for him to find and slash at their throats, tearing their lives from their bodies. They weren't worthy of even the air they breathed.

It was thanks to this that Sicarus was well-versed in violence, even if he was uncertain of war and battle. He was used to spilling blood, and that in and of itself would prove useful in time. The first kill was often the hardest, but for Sicarus, it was the easiest, the one he'd taken the most pleasure in—the tawny-furred once-monk had reveled in that first death, enjoying every tiny drop of blood flowing from the traveler's throat. The man had offended Sicarus's beliefs in some way; the pale-furred Italian did not even remember what the man had said to cause such a rage to flow through his body. Before he knew it, his brothers were screaming and pulling him off of the man. Their efforts were too late, too little, and the lifeless body of that first kill had fallen to the floor, his intestines spilling into the afternoon's sunlight.

Perhaps Brother Jodacus had made a mistake in releasing him; Sicarus did not bother to think of the dark-furred man very often anymore. Sic had put the monastery and his past behind him; he did not bother to think of such things anymore. There was a new leader to follow and a new enemy to fight—Inferni. He did not know anything about them or even his present pack; the pale-furred wolf had to serve Haku's will, and to best serve his leader, he had to learn everything there was to know about Inferni. After procuring directions from one of his (male) packmates, the tawny-furred wolf had set off for Inferni, unsure of what a coyote even was—he'd never seen one before in his life. The sun was beginning to set, and Sicarus figured now was as good a time as any to investigate the pack's neighbors and enemies.

The tawny-furred man took no notice of the sky above and the oncoming twilight as he stole toward the Inferni border, leaving from the coastal part of Dahlia de Mai to make his way quickly toward the foreign soil. There was calm confidence in Sicarus, though it stemmed from ignorance more than anything—he had never engaged in war before, and he did not know just how vicious a threatened clan could protect its borders. Still, the strange scents of these creatures began to waft into his nose as he drew closer toward their border, his hood drawn up against his face. He was brand new to Dahlia de Mai, but the meeting had insured he smelled just like the rest of the pack, as did the few days he'd spent in their midst. The werewolf smelled the border clearly, and though some deep-seeded wolf's instinct called for him to remain on his own side, the wolf trod across it, his behavior changing the moment he was within the coyote's territory. He drew closer to the ground, crouched almost totally over himself, lifting his feet and spreading his toes to make as little noise as possible.

A very fresh scent caught his nose and caused it to wrinkle, for it was distinctly female. The wolf decided this female smelled rather weak—there was something almost subservient in her scent, mingled clearly with the scent of another female. Perfect prey—Sicarus of Dahlia de Mai would strike here and now in Haku's name, and he would do it swiftly and silently. Creeping along the woman's scent trail, Sic did not take long to track down the pale coyote, his dark cloak shrouding him and blending him in with the shadows—he would help his leader's cause, he would bring down at least one member of this damnable clan tonight. A rare smile of pure excitement crossed Sicarus's face; this was almost like a game to the tawny wolf. He could see her several feet in front of him now, and with one final crouch and spring, he was flying through the air toward the smaller canine's side, aiming to hit her shoulder and drag her down.

Word Count: 301

Oh, she was a tiny one. Tiny and weak and worthless. A strange sort of rage rose up in Sicarus, hate and scorn for her kind and all of her sex because they were all like this. There were no women in the monastery, and for good, God-fearing reason—they were temptresses, all of them. They would pull the brothers off of their ordained path and trick them with their womanly ways; Sicarus could tell that just by looking at the back of this weakling's head. He was on top of her, on her back, in almost a sexual position—except Sicarus wasn't even thinking of it that way. It was as if someone had cut out the sexuality parts of the tawny-furred wolf's mind and stomped them to pieces on the ground; there was simply no brain center for sex within Sicarus, and he hardly ever even experienced desire anymore.

She squirmed and writhed beneath him, increasing that feeling of absolute power flowing through his veins—he'd spill her blood for sure tonight. Her claws scrabbled uselessly against the ground as she tried to crawl out from beneath him but he reached forward and grabbed the back of her head, sinking his fingers into the thick mane covering the woman's head and neck. Slowly, almost carefully, he pulled her head back, his fingers wound tightly into the other canine's fur as to still cause pain. He didn't want to jerk her head back and end up snapping her neck; it simply would not do to give this pathetic little creature a fast and painless death. Sicarus leaned over the other canine, breathing heavily with her struggle, too enthralled with his catch to even consider clamping his hand over her muzzle. It didn't matter if she screamed; she was already dead.

Word Count: 437

A low and rumbling growl escaped Sicarus's throat, and a snarl displayed across his face. He was steadily losing control of his emotions; the calm, cool exterior of Sicarus de Ericeto was breaking down fast, and he licked his coal-black lips, his pink tongue flickering like a snake's tongue out between his bared teeth. He would savor this; this was for Haku. Pulling on the smaller canine's hair, he drew her head back as far as it would go, sticking his teeth right next to the tawny-furred woman's ear. She wasn't even worthy of hearing his voice, but Sicarus could not help but taunt her. "Poor little thing," he hissed, shaking his head back and forth. "Did you think war would spare you because you are a woman?" the wolf asked, hardly desiring an answer for his question. It was clear enough as his other hand drew toward her shoulder, his dagger-sharp claws raking through the thick and muscled flesh of her back, her blood welling up as he sliced through her flesh. Sicarus did not slash at her flesh quickly; instead he dug his claws in at first and dragged them through her fur and skin slowly, so slowly—he wanted her to feel every aching moment of this.

The coppery scent of her blood frenzied him and he lost his focus, the edges of his vision blurring to a seething, unseening crimson. There was no other scent than that of her very blood, the sustaining life's fluid that was now his to control and use as he wished. Pausing in his scratches to dig his claws in and twist his hand mercilessly, the tawny-furred wolf drew back suddenly, still keeping his other hand firmly dug into her mane, his other hand cocking back to deliver a swift, hard punch to the back of the other canine's head, aiming to knock her out or at least disorient her for a minute. Sicarus wanted to see her face as she died; he wanted to watch the life fade from her eyes, and it would do him no good if he was staring at her back for this entire time. Planting his legs on either side of her, the wolf roughly dragged her around, flipping the smaller canine around to face him. "Ad maiorem Dei gloriam," the wolf muttered, drawing his fiery eyes over the girl's body for what might be the final time, thinking again how disgusting and small and weak it was. She deserved this, for nothing more than that she was a woman; she deserved this more because she was an enemy of his leader.

Word Count: 547

Oh, he was almost there. The blood would flow from her neck and coat the ground, an angry red message spreadying slowly like ooze across the Inferni ground, soaking through their grasses and staining the very earth beneath lovely and wonderful crimson. He would slit her throat with his claws—it was unworthy of her blood to touch his mouth—and watch it bubble from the hole. This one was his, a clear message to the Inferni leader from Haku Soul—Sicarus hadn't even met any of Inferni save this scrawny weakling, and they'd already become the focal point of the pale wolf's endless violence. This faceless enemy would die.

He saw the stars in her eyes, the drowsy wooziness that had taken over the other canine's brain and made her slow and stupid—not that he was much of any threat even before he'd knocked her silly. A very cruel-looking grin spread across the Dahlian's face, and he drew his hand back, readying himself for the final strike—oh, it would be so beautiful. This was as close to sexual satisfaction as Sicarus allowed himself to get; this was almost like an orgasm for the asexual canine. He felt the bloodlust and violence building in him, begging for the sweet release of watching this woman's blood spray—whump. Before Sicarus could realize what was going on, he was in the air, flying and striking the ground, rolling before lying still a moment.

A growl echoed from the wolf's lungs, and he allowed himself only that moment of stunned silence, denied his orgasm. Rage exploded in his chest, and the wolf rolled to his feet quickly, his fire-gold eyes narrowed to slits as he stared down the other canine who'd dared take his satisfaction from him. Who interrupted Sicarus de Ericeto, slayer of whores and prostitutes? A malicious look was cast over to the tawny-furred canine, smaller than Sicarus but not by much, clearly laden with muscle—were it not for that slight size difference, Sic might have even acted in a brotherly way toward the other canine. He was not so thick-headed that he did not detect the subtle differences between wolfkind and this canis latrans, this coyote scum. The ears were larger, the muzzle slimmer and the body just generally smaller. Contempt flared on Sicarus's face, and he returned the other canine's growl with one of his own, noting the sharp blade in the other canine's hand.

Stalking left and then right, Sicarus's eyes darted to the canine behind this newcomer, still focused on her more than anything—she was the weaker of the pair, she would have made the better sacrifice to the Dahlian Rosen. The Italian wolf let out a snort, stepping forward toward the new coyote with his head down, robes flowing about his body. Sicarus didn't much care if they got dirty or even ripped—his coat provided more than enough shelter from the winter cold. A sneer appeared on his face as he approached, his steps swift and light, cocking his fist back to take a swing at the other canine, still wary of the knife but driven to rage beyond caring. Let that other weakling male rip at my flesh, the wolf thought, a growl erupting from his throat.

Word Count: 624

Now that there were two Sicarus was no more frightened or afraid than he had been when he'd stalked Vieira, clearly the predator to the prey. The tawny-furred wolf was either stupid or he simply didn't care—likely a good mix of both. He'd fought with knives before and he knew the damage they could inflict, but to Sicarus there was no joy in carving up an enemy with a blade. You couldn't feel the blood bubbling over your fingers and claws, soaking through your fur; you couldn't touch the warmth of the other canine's very life as it ebbed from the victim's body. It was an empty art, necessary for protection where another enemy might carry a knife but useless where it came to actually experiencing the brutality of the kill.

His fist sailed toward the other canine's face, arcing through the air toward the other canine's face. The werewolf had a violent look on his face, an absolute joy brought about by this inflicting of pain on another living being—if there was one thing Sicarus thrived on, it was shedding blood. Without any other outlet for sex, Sicarus was left with just violence. It was just as satisfying and it did not leave him with that hollowed, disgusted feeling in his chest. After he'd raped that woman, there was only absolute, crushing, all-encompassing despair. He'd betrayed everything he held true about women—weak, worthless, useless. Perhaps it was good that he'd learned early; Sicarus would not make this same mistake again.

For one who was so unattracted to women, it would have almost made sense for Sicarus to be a homosexual—but as brotherly as he acted toward men, it had never even occurred to him that men could be a sexual object, too. He'd never experienced attraction to them, so even if he figured out this vital piece of the puzzle it was unlikely he'd ever even consider approaching another man. Sex was simply not a part of Sicarus's brain; some vital piece of him had been broken in his development and it was unlikely to ever heal. Sic did not consider himself wounded, but there was something very sick and twisted within the canine.

Searing pain ripped through the male's shoulder, and he cried out, a snarling sort of yowl that echoed up from his throat and exploded into the otherwise still night. The knife sliced upward across his chest and through the muscle of his shoulder, white-hot pain following the blade of the knife. The other canine had moved too quickly, completely throwing the werewolf's expectations—from the way Snake had stood there, Sicarus had expected him to remain still, taking the punch with the hopes of inflicting damage with the knife—but he had darted to the side of the punch and still managed to inflict damage to Sicarus. Staggering back and clutching at his damaged arm, the wolf let out a roaring sort of growl toward the other canine, blood dripping down his arm. The slice was not deep enough to cause serious damage to the man's muscles, but it hurt like bloody hell, and the werewolf found he had lost some mobility in that arm thanks to the pain.

Still, he charged forward again, taking a swing with his weaker fist, though this time his fingers were spread wide to slash—he wanted to smell the blood now, and a fist would not do the proper damage for this. Sicarus wanted to feel his claws gut this stranger coyote; he wanted to tear them both up now and leave them as a perfectly clear message for the leaders of Haku's enemies—the Dahlian wolves were strong, and they would not be beaten back so easily.

Word Count: 646

This was almost something new to Sicarus; he had received extensive training in his time, he had fought with tooth and nail and claw and sword and dagger before, but experience was a very different thing from training, and Sicarus had never encountered prey that actually fought back before. His victims were women, weak and starving in the bowels of the cities he prowled. Indeed, some did fall into the category of "prostitute" as he so loved to call them, but more often than not they were simply someone's sister or mother or daughter walking home from their day. Sicarus had never bothered to find out; simply for the fact that they were women — easy prey, easy picking — he'd stolen the life from them.

There was something like a twisted shout of joy from the other canine, a strange and strangled noise expressing the absolute euphoria caused by inflicting pain on another. Glee and relief rushed into Sicarus as he saw his claws cut through the flesh of the other canine, red pouring out of the wound for a moment before the smaller coyote was off and on the move again, twisting away from the larger wolf's deadly grasp. The tawny Gazon snarled at this, turning more slowly to keep up with the other canine, but he found that for once he was at the disadvantage here when it came to speed. He was used to being faster than his opponents, perhaps because he was quite a bit smaller than the average wolf—his own lupus form only topped out at eighty-five pounds, and thanks to the long months of travel, he was just about five pounds underweight, perhaps more in this form.

For some unexplainable reason, the other canine actually put the knife away, renewing Sicarus's will to throw him to the ground and tear him to pieces. There was no other way to describe what the tawny canine was feeling. There was just a completely insane desire to rip every little shred of red muscle and flesh from the other canine's frame and leave nothing but a mash of organs and bloodied bone. It was not so much a desire to kill as a desire to completely destroy and obliterate everything in his path. If he had possessed a targeting system for a nuclear bomb he would have dropped it then and there, even if it meant turning himself to dust in the process.

The tawny wolf could hardly see anymore, but there was a blur of motion now, a hand hurtling toward his face! Not today, coyote! the man crowed, throwing the arm closest to Snake up to block this attempt, only to find a moment later as more searing pain ripped across his chest. It had been a fake! The tawny-furred wolf reeled backwards, slashing blindly at the air with his claws to bat away any further attempts to damage his poor flesh. The pain was very much unlike anything he'd felt before—the wheat-colored werewolf was quite used to harming himself, but as he generally hunted those incapable of fighting for themselves, he was not used to this. "Sorca," he gasped, clutching at his throat. Thankfully, he'd jerked back enough so that the wound did not slit his throat, but this one was ugly, tearing across his collarbone and down along his chest almost to the arm. There was no further need for comment; he was beaten—if he remained he would die, and Haku Soul had not even ordered his mission. He could not disappoint his leader so quickly. The other canine would not pursue him; he still had to attend to the woman on the floor. The Dahlian turned tail and fled, his feet carrying him as fast as they could. His own blood coursed down his arm and chest, soaking his tawny fur a brilliant shade of crimson.