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There was blood in his mouth. It was not necessarily his own—it did not taste like his own. A pink tongue flickered about his lips like the forked tongue of a snake. That empty sneer curled the corner of his lips as those black orbs watched the thing before him, but for a moment he saw nothing. The brute saw only the images that were in his mouth, the secrets that the blood held. It was as if he could taste the extent to which the blood of the lighter male was tainted, could taste the rotting quality as if it were an infectious, festering wound. The festering had been there for a long while, the infection spreading like the black cloud of a thunderstorm. Yes, there was something that the male could recognize, and so his hackles were lowered, his posture returning to that relaxed dominance as the sneer faded from that maw. But the black orbs, for all their fathomless gelidity, flickered with that mockery. It would not be long for this one, and the end would be quick. Then there would be darkness. It was always that way. Once the darkness had found a secure hold, there was no stopping it. It was a juggernaut.
Then there was movement, and the black eyes refocused upon the colourless world about him. The lighter eyes of the thing before him met his gaze, and the blackness pierced him as if seeking to draw out that darkness that still hid within the heart of that creature. The black ears flickered forward as the other spoke, once more like those horns of demons long forgotten and feared. A sneer tugged at the corners of those impassive lips, but they could not be made to form the true smirk that was made by the mouth of the other. There was a quiet pause before the pied wolf himself spoke, as if in that silence there was a soundless laughter that echoed only within that hollow soul. “그레,” the tenor voice soothed, the Korean rolling comfortably upon that serpent’s tongue like a quiet, warning thunder. She would come; perhaps this male did not know his daughter as well as he claimed. The crow wolf had simply to lie in waiting like a coiled snake in his burrow. The prey would walk by believing that life was a constant, inevitable entity. And then he would strike swiftly, taking what he needed and leaving the shell behind. She was a curious creature and would not disappoint him. She was like the bitch from whom she was born, and he’d use her in the same way.
The wind tugged at his fur, begging for something that he could not recognize. And then the other spoke again. For a moment the black eyed brute was silent as if those sudden words spoken in a foreign tongue could not be understood. Suddenly the male sat, untroubled by the threat that the other had posed only moments before. His arrogance was to an extent that it was foolish, yet it lacked that foolish exterior. “I have but to wait,” the tenor soothed, the sound strangely hollow as it fell in the air. “She will make herself come to me.” Like a snake and his prey. Cwmfen new the danger, but that would not keep her away. The brute did not know what it was that would make her come; he knew only that she would. And would the other believe him? Would he stop him? The lighter creature no longer attacked, and the father wondered if his daughter knew how exposed she truly was. A soft laughter emanated from the male. Such foolish creatures.