[size=small]Blunt body encased in white, and gray slowly slid along the ravine. It was nightfall, barely any moon, though stars lit the way. Artok was used to the night time, he preferred it. Less creatures hunting, less bothering creatures. He could just exist in the starlight and shadows, limp his way along. 

He finally found a place to settle, paws at the edge of the ravine, he skirted the danger, tasted the wild. The starlight twinkled on the peppered white bones that lay along the ravine floor, and nocturnal creatures moved amongst the bones, picking at tiny morsels of food. 

Artok found solace in dead things. Perhaps, he had almost died so many times, it was one thing never changing. Death. There ready to embrace everyone, ready to take you when your number was up. No one could outrun death. Eventually, it came for you.[/size]

There.

An old man limped along the ravine. Large and, save for the limp, seemingly healthy. Baudelaire thought little of him — and likely vice versa, if the youth had to guess. He wondered if the old man had come here to pass away. Perhaps drawn by the valley of bones, ready to add his own to them.

The young male only watched, silent and curious, a safe distance away. He had no interest in playing grim reaper, only wished to see the intent of the stranger.

A sixth sense tingled at the back of Artok's mind, and though he lay near the edge he lifted large head and stared around him. Golden eyes taking in the shadows, where the stars danced along the edges of the seam of the world. 

His eyes caught sight of a Giant beast, big, bigger than him. Artok didn't usually balk in fear, he actually wasn't sure if he even knew what fear was anymore, but this wolf made him take a second look. Gigantic and brutish. 

See something you like. Or you just like to stare? He called out. Perhaps his age had given him more bravado than most. Perhaps it was simply that he didn't care anymore. If he died he died, if he fought he fought. It was simple really, and so was this. The youth was watching, waiting. Was he watching and waiting to attack or just curious.

Jarred.

Baudelaire had not expected to hear such words from the elder man. See something you like, how dare, he thought! A soft snort, head turning to look elsewhere. The young man did not have such a voice to respond with for such a surprise!

Soon enough his golden gaze would return, still silent, but his stare skewing softer now.

Artok prided himself on being one of the most surprising individuals. He never acted one way, or at least he didn't try too, and often he would say the most bawdy things, if not curse like there was no tomorrow, to get the gauge of someone. He was if nothing else, is very own wolf. Who made enemies quicker than he made friends.

Artok swiftly stood, despite his limp and turned to face the boy that stared at him. White and grey dancing with star light. He blinked and moved closer, no violence in his step. Well? He spoke to the youth, golden eyes glimmering.

Well?

He snorted his nonchalance with the man. And if I tell you both? He dared to tease, lips pulling to reveal teeth in a well-practiced smile. Do you enjoy the eyes of another upon you?

Still, he remained out of reach. Weary that the man might not share a mutual enjoyment in his teasing!

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I am going to have such fun with Artok with this post heh

Well Fuck. Was Artok's only thought, not that it was bad. No, he had meant to make the youth so uncomfortable he let him be, but now. Now, his curiosity was peaked and so was his inner voyeur. So with a well practiced smirk, that set his eyes alight.

He took a step back and then with agonizing slowness, he traced his eyes from the tip of the youth's tail, to the tip of his ears. Eyes sweeping across every valley, hill and dale he could see. Dipping low to linger on places, that would make the youth blush, and then back to his eyes. The smirk every present.

He was gigantic, Athletic, it was night time, but stars were about, the moon slightly. So he could see enough to know what he was seeing and working with here. Artok was larger than most wolves, but even this one had him beat.

The question becomes do you?

One might have dared to say that Baudelaire was posing.

He had not once shied away from appraisal before and he would not do so now, in the eyes of a hardened warrior. He stretched, front toes flexed out as if they might become talons and pick the other male up from the very land.

I have no shame. He answered, boyish charm shining through his pride.

A smirk danced along the bottom of Artok's face. The white of his fur, bright in the starlight. He gave an amused chortle as the youth posed, he fucking posed. Not that Artok minded what was shown.

He was a rather grand specimen of youth, and though Artok's tastes usually veered to small, feminine and quiet. This one had peaked his interest, and he couldn't say he didn't dabble in other liason's especially given that he was a male and an animal, and sometimes when a woman's heat drove you crazy enough, well you did all sorts of absolutely beautiful things. Sometimes without the scent of heat too.

Artok grinned.

Me neither.

He posed in return, a smirk on his face. He moved closer still, eyeing the youth, and wondering what was it that this youth wanted from him? To be admired? To be cowled? To share a moment under the stars? What?

What is it you are searching for.

It does not matter,

He started with, daring to close the gap between them. Regal steps, a practiced posture and gait. Baudelaire had been born for greatness and he would not dash it away in these wildlands.

When I have found you.

Artok listened with interest, eyes watching the youth as he dared to move closer, and closer still. Their breath mingling here now. Close up, Artok got a bigger eye full. A youth taller than he, made for running. Where Artok was more of a stocky, fellow, made for wider stance and broader shoulders. There was no lean waist upon him. Solid.

The youth was painted, in colors of frost and loam. Eyes of moon kissed star beams. Artok, gave a soft purl of a noise.

Pretty words, mean nothing.

The youth could tell him it was meant for fate, that he found exactly what he was looking for and it would be exactly what Artok knew it to be. Lies, more lies on top of lies.

He stood still allowing the youth with a hair's breadth. He would allow him to make the first move, though he kept his body in such a way that any internal organs and his throat were hidden. It was one thing to search for unfeeling, carnal anything, it was another to attack. And thus far, this youth had not fully shown his hand. The ball was firmly in the youths court.

The man remained guarded.

Baudelaire wondered what it was that he wanted. Why bother? Was the man having a life crisis, hoping the cure was within the wayward? If words meant nothing, then it meant the time for talk was nearing its end.

Then show me your act. He rumbled, daring to reach out to brush his nose along delicate hairs. Well aware he might find teeth on his snout for it.

Artok wasn't certain what he had wanted, when he wandered this way. Even now, there was a giant question mark. Though, he knew part of him just wanted to feel something. All to often Artok forget he was alive, he existed moving among the pack lands, among his own thoughts. Dark, dark thoughts.

At the brush of contact, Artok eased his stance, and raised a brow a smirk on his face. He moved his own muzzle down the youths shoulder and side in gentle circles, a teasing bite here, a whisper of a gentle soothing kiss there. His intentions were clear, but he was also not in the mood to give, he would rather take. It had been too long since he had surrended his own control in such a manner. However, this youth was young, and he would let him set the pace, and choose the manner of where this would go.

Probably much to young for Artok to be messing with, but he found he didn't rightly care.

Foolish.

Baudelaire of Heir's Loch had been many things, but he had never been a lover. A boyfriend, a fling, whatever you may call it. His graze with adoration and crushes had only just begun!

But here was a warrior, too wise and haggard, and Baudelaire found himself with little complaints.

Artok felt the moment the youth gave in, and a smile tugged at his maw. He was young, untest, untried, but Artok was more than happy to teach. And teach he would. He circled following spine with jaw, nip at tail bone and back up.

He would take the night to teach the youth both an embrace of his own, and Artok's own embrace, and he would leave in the morning with no regrets.

-fade to black-