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Sicarus de Ericeto · 01-12-2010, 04:20 AM

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Word Count: 536

In Character

Morning came, and with it Sicarus rose. He was almost strictly diurnal—asleep at an insanely early time and waking practically with the dawn on most days. Though he preferred the daylight, the Italian wolf was not above slinking around in the shadows of night. It was infinitely easier to stalk one's prey, and they tended to be out and about far more often, as prostitutes and whores generally preferred to walk in the evenings. So great was their crime they chose to hide it and cover it up with shadow—such a thing did not matter to Sicarus. He could smell it in their blood; most women were just barely a step above a prostitute to Sicarus anyway. There were none worthy of even the air they breathed; for all he cared they could all burn for eternity—and if he had his way, they would.

Thanks to spending the night curled up at the base of a tree shivering, the wheat-colored wolf sought to further explore his new homeland, and hopefully discover some kind of permanent residence. He did not wish to endure another night of freezing cold, and he grumbled to himself as he wandered amongst the trees, already sour from having a poor night's sleep. For one who had grown up in a world of books and beds and candlelight, the cold darkness of a night spent in the wilderness was absolutely nerve-wracking, awakening instincts Sicarus did not even know he still possessed. Even during his wanderings the male was far more used to sleeping in an alleyway rather than the open forest. There was a certain familiarity to the city's din—this wild place held he could recognize.

There was something, though—the coppery scent of blood came to the wolf, wafting over the icy winter's breath. Sicarus was something of a shark; he could detect that smell anywhere. It drew him like bait, quickening his gait into a fast lope. Disappointment crowded him when he saw there was nothing more than a spindly yearling licking the last of his breakfast from his lips. In a moment Sicarus had assessed him and found him unworthy, and almost kept walking in the other direction, but a pressing need to know his clanmates drove him nearer to the stranger, slowing down as he approached. There was a good chance this wolf had been here a great deal longer than he Sicarus himself, and whatever information this weakling might provide could come in handy—maybe.

"You there," the man called out, already arcing his tail, his head held upwards in the cocky expression of dominance that came to him so instinctively. In his Optime form, Sicarus was rather short, but he towered over the Lupus, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. This was not Haku; this man deserved nothing from Sicarus de Ericeto. The off-gold man caught up to the other canine. "Have you lived here long?" Sicarus did not even realize the great fault of wolf hierarchy he might have committed here—were the other canine actually ranked above him, the tawny Gazon's showy arrogance would have earned him a quick smack to the head and a nice trip to the frozen dirt.

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