quite eradicated
This was not the first wolf who had hated him for his blood. Ezekiel looked like a coyote; he was large, yes, but his body confirmations and the sleek lines of his head were nothing short of his heritage. Wolf within him was only strength, only weight, and only instinct. He could look into their thoughts, know them, and so he understood what it was he hated. It was not all wolves, as some so blindly believed them to think, but a general and all-purpose loathing that consumed him and made him think of these others as somehow terrible.
Teeth grazed and pulled at the thick scruff of winter fur on Ezekiel’s neck. He was faster than the wolf. A toothy snarl pulled at his face as he swung wide, feigning for the wolf’s throat and then diving towards his side. Again, Ezekiel snapped wildly. He slammed his weight against the wounded haunch; while not as large as the wolf, he certainly intended to exploit the wounds he created. Medical training had given Ezekiel an advantage—he knew exactly where to strike, and exactly what would destroy those who stood against him,
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