[html]All Welcome, set December 3 at 11:30am.
They were all fucked up, the whole lot of them.
With the simplest of intentions, Andre had set out that morning. He had left the beach of Inferni, for he refused to stay in the house that had been offered him by Gabriel, him and his siblings (which were as useless as the rocks on the sands), and headed out for the heart of Bleeding Souls, for the pack that had robbed his sister. He didn't care that she was gone—it was a good riddance, in his opinion—but the fact was that here was the place he might find the assistance he needed. He had been born a disease, had allowed it to take him over so completely that it was his single goal in life. Killing and hating wolves would be a hobby, he had decided, and Hybrid would be his mentor. What he really was after was control of Inferni so that he may march them against the other packs and take over the entire place. The first thing he needed to do, however, was destroy his siblings that took up the ranks of the small clan.
And for that, even though the smell of the place disgusted him and the nature of the man was worse, he had come to find his father. His disgusting, wolf-loving hybrid father. He, too, was of mixed blood, but the amount of pure coyote in him much outweighed that of wolf, and he shunned the wolf in him. The only thing it would ever do for him is make him bigger, stronger, than if he was entirely a coyote. His father, however, had left the 'yotes to live among the abominations, as Hybrid had so eloquently put it, and chosen these poor, filthy bastards over the true supremacy.
He didn't like walking over the border of Clouded Tears into land touched by wolves, but he had no choice but to track down Laruku and force him to help him overthrow Inferni. If nobody else were there for him, Hybrid would always help—he was faithful that the hybrid was on his side—and he would just have to beat daddy dearest into it. This, of course, went over and over in his head as turning into a glorious fight where the four month old child could match his father; this was not the case.
The confidence that slipped from the many cracks in him, however, spoke otherwise.
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[html] He wasn't a supremacist, but he dislike coyotes on pretense. Initially it had been driven into him by his father, but after he had met a few coyotes on his own, the idea metastasized. Now however, there was a clear difference from the blind hate he had shown when he was younger. While he still hated them by definition, he showed tolerance by allowing a moment to gauge them individually against nothing. In a way, it wasn't the coyotes that he hated, it was the hate itself that drove him to hate. If there was not a predisposition that clearly stated division between coyotes and wolves, the hate wouldn't exist, and they would hate each other for personal reasons instead of species accordance. But the predisposition would never alter, and it would never disappear.
The blatant scent of coyote just inside the borders arose the cry of the chained monster within him. Coyotes typically threw themselves out of joint in an irrational rage when a wolf set foot across their borders; exactly what Castor wanted to do when a coyote set foot across wolf borders, and maybe it was his own youth that wanted the irrational part. His logical mind took over though and restrained that beast within him, heading toward the source of the scent. When he arrived however, it was no longer necessary to consciously hold himself in check. The coyote was young, not to mention...
"Yes?" he rumbled, his lack of any real interest suddenly morphing into some semblance of interest, stepping closer to the young coyote hybrid. He looked curiously like Arkham, smelled like Arkham smelled, and already, he had an idea of why he was here. That is, if his original theory was sound.
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The child watched the beast step out towards him, barely keeping his muzzle from wrinkling up in disgust at the fresh wave of wolf scent that washed over him. Perhaps it was simply his biased opinion, influenced not only by Hybrid but by his overactive, crazy imagination, that caused him to want to get rid of the wolf immediately, but he struggled to control himself. This was the first test of the mask he had carefully molded to fit him perfectly, a second skin that would wrap up his flaws and would make him seem as charming and agreeable as possible. That, he believed, would be the only way that he would ever get what he really wanted. If his brute ability to hate and to want to maim and kill would not bring him to victory, then trickery would help.
I'm h're to see my father, he said in response, voice raised just a tad to seem even more innocent and even sweeter than it should. The boy would rather have puked on the wolf's foot and walked away after ripping its face open, but that would be irresponsible of him. The boy would rather spill the blood of wolves on his own homeland, blessing his own earth with their guts and their innards, than he would to bring the whole pack down on his head. While Andre was confident that he could take on two or three wolves by himself (it was overconfidence, needless to say), he did not believe he could take the whole lot of the smelling beasts.
Is that no' allowed? As if to question the very existence of Castor.
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