Dripping Daggers

As swiftly as the word 'swift' left the maw of the snow sheathed Lambda, Slade was gone. The large bulked man had been upon his fours within miliseconds, and spirinted to the far end of the well worn trail. Keeping the white man in his sight, the dark lupine pivoted, as agile as a gazelle, and sprinted with a the same unbroken speed in the opposite direction, kicking up falled leaves, and decayed bushes that littered the forest floor.
As he pivoted for the second time, and dashed back to stand calmly in front of the white warrior, calmly, with not a single black hair out of place. Slade stood there only a second more, a smirk flashing to his ivories.
It was then, that he leapt over the smaller male, with an ease, that to untrained eyes, could have suggested that he could fly.
Only a short leap, though high, his dagger sheathed obsidian claws latched firmly to the bark of a dead elm tree, and with the smoothness of a cougar, he climbed up the thick trunk, and resided on the barely leaved husk.
The moment he heard a crack in the breaking log, he leapt, forepaws first, and landed, as silent as death itself, and with his back turned to the company, he sat, not uttering a pant of exhaustion.
Slade wasn't even exhausted.

Calmly, he spoke,

"That was just a simple run of agility. Combat, that is something you might have to learn, paw to paw, with me. "

Volcanic irises stared ahead, awaiting the wolf's verdict.