Andrezej was not one to hang about in any territory but the beach, but the longer he stuck around, the angrier he grew. By the day, now, he was becoming more vicious and sadistic, driving himself mad with the smell of his own blood. In fact, to testify to this new side of him, cuts, some fresher than others and all obviously caused by walking on intentionally sharp stones, laced his paw pads, and smears of those cuts, his muzzle. He had not been licking his wounds to make them better, but to savour the taste; it may have been his own, but that was simply how coldly twisted he was. It maddened him, heightened his senses, and made him feral; he was a killer, a wounder, and he would be a torturer, the day he was given that chance.
The pup strolled quite lackadaisically at this point, not even feeling the scabs and fresher wounds stretching and pulling as he walked; pain was hardly known to him any longer. His ears were almost constantly pinned back, and the heavy scowl he wore was not at all out of place on his face. Andre was, of course, quickly learning that backstabbing would be far more fun than simply striking, but when it came to certain beings, it didn't matter any way.
One of them happened to be sitting there by the shore and, maniac's grin already twisted across his lips, the boy slunk forward. It may have been mistaken, from a distance, as a brotherly trick, but his intentions were far more malicious; anybody who so much as met his acidic gaze knew it. Andre would never straighten out; he followed his father quite fully, but to the wolf-loving bastard, he spared no love. He would kill him in the end for aligning himself with the mutts.
Peekaboo,
came the harsh warning, laced with cruel laughter that twisted into a deep snarl, and it all happened only seconds before Andre and his flashing jaws pounced.