A small streak of white and grey flashes by, followed by a larger streak of the same colors. Heavy breathes roll from his parted jaw, his tongue lolling out as he runs. Aaron chases a rabbit-- it's small and has little meat on its body, but it's still food. He wants it for his wife, who he believes deserves all of the substinance in the world. He is running faster than he ever has in his entire life-- the bulky man is stonger than he is faster-- and in the perfect moment he decides to leap. His large body crashes down onto the tiny creature, snapping it's back as soon as he lands. It falls limp beneath him and he has to trot a few feet forward in order to slow himself completely. 

He turns back towards the rabbit and smiles at it. He's succeeded. He can feed his wife. 

Hunger had turned the ghost into a foul and fury-driven beast. It had pulled him from the coast and set him on the packlands. Ragged breaths fell from his maw as he lumbered deeper into the marked land. Kierkegaard was not wary, though; he was burning with the need to quench the hunger in his gut. His breathing rasped from his throat. Were it not for the stench of blood in the air, perhaps he would have missed the other wolf altogether. This was not the case. Fiery eyes found the male with his catch clasped in his jaws. Ashen fur stood on end and the ghost snapped his fangs together with a gutteral rumble. 

Kierkegaard - so torn from the reclusive and stoic nature that he had built - did not act with caution. He wanted to breathe the blood of this beast. The ghost wanted to take everything from him to show this pack animal the true nature of starvation. Without warning, the great pallid wanderer dove through the foliage with a wicked glint in his gaze. His fangs were aimed for the other male's throat. 

The man has no time to react or defend-- which happens to be his strongest suite. Instead, he has only enough time to subsitute his throat for his scruff, which is grabbed firmly as he is bulldozed into the dirt-covered ground. The few grass stems that have risen up thus far are squashed back into the dust, their green coloring smearing themselves across the white in the mans coat. Aaron struggles beneath the large man, but it seems his weight has been matched. In times of such a famine, starvation is the best weapon-- and the other male seems to have a firm grasp on how to use his.

Aaron snaps at the white man, but he is in a bad position-- his scruff has handicapped him. He twists and moves to fight back, white teeth flashing in every which way. 

There was a triumphant feeling in the pit of the ghost’s gut as his fangs clasped around the scruff of the pack wolf. The opposing male was frantic in his attempts to latch his teeth on anything. Kierkegaard was wild, driven by need, but he was not unstoppable. The pack wolf found flesh on the Sairensu male’s shoulder. The ashen brute could feel this man’s fangs as they dug into the skin near his neck. Trying to adjust his large frame, Kierke tossed his skull from side to side, hoping to shake the pack wolf enough to get his teeth out of his shoulder blade. The scent of blood was in the air, but it was no longer just the prey that lingered there.
 
A frightening growl erupted from his maw as the stranger found flesh again; this time in the skin along Kierkegaard’s chest. Releasing his hold on the wolf’s scruff, the pallid ghost lowered his skull towards the earth in a defensive manner, keeping his throat safely guarded from a potential attack. His wild, fiery gaze sought the prey animal that the other wolf had managed to capture. It wasn’t much, but it would quell the hunger in the loner’s gut. Darting forward, Kierkegaard aimed his shoulder towards the other male in hopes that he might be able to knock the creature over.

He bites hard as his teeth knick flesh-- and although his grip is not firm he tastes blood, and the man lets out a deep growl. Aaron's hold is not steady though, and as the ghostly attacker begins to shake him loose he finds himself unable to stay with the other. As his teeth part, they pull flesh with him, and he's forced to the side as the other dodges sideways.

Even in battle Aaron's gaze focuses on the other's face, reading his features and judging his next move. Now, he sees it dart towards his rabbit-- Amara's rabbit-- and he's enraged. "You can not--" he begins to snarl, bracing himself to lunge, but he is not quick, and the other has moved faster than he has. Although Aaron is too bulky and sturdy to be thrown to the ground, the man skids backwards as he is shouldered, and uses this moment to aim his bites for the throat-- for the kill.

The were apart for only a moment before Kierkegaard felt his shoulder connect with the other wolf. The pack creature was sturdy enough to hold his ground, but Kierke had not anticipated he would be able to fully unload this wolf on the earth in a pile of fur and snapping fangs. Instead, his fiery gold gaze looked to the opposing male and saw the man lung for his neck. The throat was a sacred area for the ragged ghost. He had always been quick to guard it, and the soft flesh of his underbelly. The white wolf seemed adamant about keeping Kierkegaard away from his catch. In times of famine, the ashen loner would have been able to understand this. But all reason had been lost on him. It was only fury and the innate will to survive that allowed him to twist his mouth upward to meet the other wolf's snapping teeth with his own. It was a kiss of ivory. 

Aaron's fangs sunk into the top of his muzzle and the more he fought to keep the creature away from his throat, the more he felt his mouth take the brunt of the force. Ears pinned to his skull, the Sairensu male lowered his torso toward the earth and in a wild attempt, darted upward with a gaping mouth, teeth hoping to latch right to the underside of the white wolf's neck. 

The man finds his teeth buried in something-- but it is not fleshy and does not hold as much blood as a soft throat might. Instead his teeth have clasped around the bony muzzle of the stranger, and he feels shivers run down his spine as his teeth grind against the bone. It is uncomfortable, but he holds fast, knowing fine and well that this man wants the food he has gathered for Amara. But it is  a short lived spark of hope for Aaron as he soon finds that the stranger has broken free. 

The king falls into slow motion, his blue eyes crossing as he looks to see the bloodied jaws of the charcoal stranger moving for his throat. He twists-- the only defensive move he can gather to do in such sort notice-- and feels teeth clasp around his lower jaw, his throat just barely escaping the clutches of death. He is thrown to the dirt as he attempts to escape the clutches of the ghost, landing hard and with sickening thuds as his large body hits the ground. He falls limp,  letting out a low whine. It is all he can think to do-- he has no more options. Aaron avoids the golden gaze of the male, and his tail curls into his stomach with embarressment. Please, his whines beg, take it and go.

His teeth missed the white beasts throat, but clamped for a moment onto the lower jaw of the other male. Kierke tightened his grip in an attempt to hold his grip on the pack male. The other wolf was smart and quick to escape. The ghost could feel flesh being ripped from his teeth as the other wolf toppled over, becoming defensive... giving in to the brutality of the loner. The fire in the brute's eyes latched to the male on the earth. He noted the curling of the pale wolf's tail and his lips remained curled over his ivory canines. 

"You will submit to me now, or I will take more from you than your home," he spat in a vicious tone. The large monster had no intention of dying. If he could not live in spite of the ravaged land and lack of prey, he would take it from another. Lifting his shaggy skull upwards, Kierkegaard parted his jaws and howled to the winds of the pack. It was his now. Their Alpha had fallen. Lumbering forward, he sniffed the prey animal and quickly sank his fangs into the tender body. His gaze did not leave the other wolf. 

The man hesitates, for this is his kingdom and he is king. It is not this strangers home. It is not his to take. But, as civilized and stubborn as the alpha is, he is no fool. Although he is not keen on them, Aaron knows the laws of the wild and unruley. Today, he is no longer the king. He no longer bares the scepter to the beautiful kingdom of Rosings. He is but a peasent now, bowing at the feet of a stranger who knows no walls. He hesitates-- but not for more than a heartbeat-- before he speaks. "It is yours," he murmurs. 

The brute moves away, but his gaze holds the fallen-king down like the weight of a boulder were atop him. Aaron avoids his gaze, staring instead through the barely budding branches and at the blue sky above. He has given his kingdom, his throne, and his pride-- and as this thought sinks in he thinks of Amara. Had he given up her as well? She and all her wonderful traits were the most sought after from his this week-- and he knows that any man could smell her from miles away. He longs to be freed from his chains, so that he could run to her and hide her from this mans grasp. 

The breath of hesitation that had overcome the white male had been enough to bristle the hackles on the ash-coated brute. The glint in his gaze was fierce and ravaged by the outside world. Once the pack had been relinquished to him, Kierkegaard did not hesitate to feast on the animal that had been caught by the other male. His teeth sank into the body of the creature and he pulled the chunks of muscle and sinew from the limp body. He did not seem to chew the meal; it touched his salmon tongue and was immediately swallowed into the aching pit in his stomach. The hot blood of the animal was like breathing in an old friend.
 
Kierkegaard finished the catch in front of the other male. With a pointed expression, he held his ears aloft and snorted a foul noise at the pale wolf. He had been a king; Aaron had merely been out to tend to the needs of the woman he loved. It was remarkable how quickly an empire could fall.
 
The brute took a few swaggering steps towards the form of Aaron. Peeling his lips back over his teeth once more and holding his gaze firmly on the face of the submissive male, he scowled. “Leave my sight, craven creature. Go to your fellow pack mates and tell them of your fall,” his baritone rumbled coldly from the back of his throat. Without so much as another word, the brute turned from the form of the white-coated male and disappeared into the heart of the pack land he had ripped from Aaron’s hands.

The man does not speak again, instead he stands and leaves quickly, avoiding eye contact and any more confrontation. His jaw bleeds, and his scruff stings as hot blood drips down his side. He leaves to find his wife, praying she is safe from harm, and sorts through what he will tell her. He has fallen, and he no longer knows what to do.