Alpine Lake Red Crossroads.

Dorus was rather adept at getting himself across the lines of potential enemies; it wasn’t a matter of stealth but one that related to his uncaring, unflinching nature. So what if other wolves roused themselves together for an attack? One bite against his dark hide and they would be infected, one spit in their direction had the ability to affect the rest of their lives… forever. And thus, with this bravery, the lanky, limping male pressed forward with his shadow tall in the lingering sun. Of course, the point of travelling was to meet those wolves hungry for the chance to chase the tail of some foreign intruder-- but perhaps fate had other plans.

The winds had changed, and upon those gentle breezes Dorus’s wet nose was teased with the scents of many travelling together against the low-lying brush of the Hinterland’s trails. A single wag of a bone tipped tail accompanied a trill of excitement bubbling within his feverish throat-- was it a pack that could be splintered apart by his mere words? Would there need to be a demonstration of sorts, a razzling huff of his rancid breath into the muzzle of some pinned down bitch!? With elation as those treacherous coils of wind flew his own scent back, changing as fast as the tides, Dorus kept those mangled ears high and that long muzzle trained upon the smell of potential victims. 

“We’re gonna’ see how fast unity buckles...”

Sorry for the poopy post I’m dead af rn lol but I forced myself to reply rn cause yeah haha

Padding forth with his pack, they break for an hour or two. Derg’s already horrid condition is slowing down the pack, yet they’d never dream of leaving him. Donovan would kill them if they did anyhow. 

During his rest time, he likes to wander. Trotting towards the lake next to a corpse of miscellaneous types of trees. Some evergreen, others oak, who cares anyhow. Heavy paws thump against the quickly dying grass beneath him, head level with his back looking quite deadly. A tiger stalking its prey, only he isn’t stalking anything. Suspicion? It’s always a common though in his complex, chaotic mind.

A noise then. The smell of another tickling his nostrils and causing him to raise his snout to the air to get another whiff. Then lowering it to the ground, finding nothing there, he raises it once more, beginning to follow. The Grandmaster walks languidly in the general direction of the area of said stranger wolf. Yet he is unable to find anything yet, looking back he doesn’t want to stray too far, yet curiosity gets the better of him — like usual. He continues on, following the scent.

Kynareth's nose would soon find those threads of scent becoming sour as Dorus neared, stinging at his nostrils like rotton carrion. The jostling of leaves would be neither silent nor stealthy, and the Grandmaster's eyes would soon catch sight of two eyes staring back at him; one clouded as if the moon itself was held there, and the other a striking, vivid blue. Dorus paused only briefly with a tentative smirk splitting his foul muzzle, revealing rows of yellowed fangs and pale flesh weak from disease.

"I wouldn't get too close, my friend..." A low, bubbling tone with the most minute of rasps, "... You run with a pack, my enemy, the weak huddled together like ants in a hole." 

Ragged ears laying flat, his bony, sickly form wavering on the spot, Dorus spoke much more quietly then...

"... And I, a wolf of the New World, am looking for death." 

The scent sours, becoming filthy and interesting to say the least. A crinkling of lips and he knows he’s getting closer. Then all of a sudden another wolf is appearing to him, their ghostly eyes revealing themselves. Gold meets blue and then his eyes flick down to those yellowing fangs. This man is fucking sick and anyone with a nose or eyes could tell. Promptly cautious, he doesn’t step any closer. It could be any disease, but one thing he does know is that it thankfully isn’t rabies — mad wolf disease as his parents called it.

They speak, mentioning how Kynareth is a part of a pack and how he’s looking for none other than death itself. Uh oh. This is not good and could easily turn very bad very quickly. 

So he does what he’d do in any other situation, stay calm and collected. “Oh?”
He hums questionably. “It’s a good thing that I too look for death.” He smirks to the other, approaching bravely. “Tell me of this New World that you speak of, friend.” Comes his low inquiry, giving him back the same energy he puts out — murderer.

Dorus's lips peel back further, that almost un-wolfish grin seeming monstorous in the shade of the trees. No anger, despite the danger of Kynareth's tone? No threatining baying that would call forth the rest of the pack to his side to dispatch of such a terrible creature...? That was interesting. With his hind legs aching the addled wolf sits and raises a skinny hindleg to scratch dead skin from the tips of those half-ears.

"The New world is a world where there arent a score of packs, of course. Not a hundred, not fifty, not twenty... just one." A pale, slimey tongue rolls out the side of his maw as the male chuckles hoarsely. "The New World is a world where 'pack law' doesn't exist. I despise 'traditional' pack laws, you see." 

A wet wheezing, a bubbling in his throat, and a wad of sickness spat to the ground. Power was an addiction, a phantom calling ever-ringing in his head, and with every dead thing that laid at his paws he remembered the way they used to treat him.

Well, who was laughing now? 

"I wanna' kill weak wolves... I wanna' kill the ones who think they have power when it's just an illusion... this large, insignificant stretch of space and the hundreds of beings that hide together behind their bounderies, rally around their little personal laws... I want to see them dead."

The smile lessened.

"Because I am bitter. Because I am vengeful; but most importantly, because I love to kill."  

Donovan isn’t quite impressed by this man’s overall health. He is only sightly disgusted when eyeing him down much too tentatively. Especially when he rests his flanks on the ground and scratches at his crusted, fly bitten ears. Oh, we’re those dead skin flakes? How lovely — a charming man he has here then. Though Donovan stops his borderline suspicious staring and listens to the other completely. 

He can see where he comes from with his pack hating logic. Kynareth too loathes weak packs that can’t handle it when they are spoken with anything other than ass kissing — the majority of the packs here. 

Then, much to Donovan’s distain, he hocks up a disgusting ball of whatever the fuck that is. The Grandmaster squints, mildly grossed out but smiles at the blatant I don’t give a fuck attitude. He loves it. Though he feels as if he loves him even more as he speaks of death and the want to destroy weaker packs — or perhaps all packs is what Kyn is getting from this. 

Finally, the striped brute hums in contemplation. Even dares to come closer and sit himself a fair meter away, unafraid of this man even though he probably should be. “Oh, but I have a pack, dearest.” He mock pouts. “I’m sure you can see that we seek the same thing, but just go about it in different ways. These surrounding packs are weak and idealistic. They’re not ready for a real war, one where children die and mothers and fathers are slaughtered in cold blood.” He shakes his head, an almost suggestive course of pleasure rolls through him at the thought of his old pack. A long drawn out hum while he briefly reminisces in the old days when he’d pillage smaller, weaker packs. “I’ve done it all. Though my pack now is much smaller than the previous one, less blood thirsty and it truly doesn’t do justice to my old one. I’ve been trying to find others like us.”

The Grandmaster’s grin could just about rival the others, though in a much less disgusting type of way. “Do you have your own followers? Or does that go against what you believe? Gotta start somewhere.” He says calmly.

Dorus knew that look well. It was a stare of repugnance but not loathing, one of disgust but it was fleeting and worried the large male not as he dared to step closer still...! The spilling of eye fluid, bloody noses and coarse nose fur could be tasted in the sick males mouth already as he tried not to drool just thinking about how such a healthy wolf would taste under his fangs-- but this one wasn't for eating, was he! Twisting his head too and fro as the other spoke, Donovan would find the scabby male nodding as his ideals were only enforced by those silky words--

"Ahahaha-ha-ha," A supressed coughing fit, "War, war! Your pack sounds like it needs a lesson in savagery, my friend. I get the feeling you're like me, eh? Wouldn't blink at taking a life. Ya' right though... though I've been lookin' for followers, they either get scared and run away or they get scared, try to run away and I kill 'em. Ha!"

The New World didn't have space, time or energy to spare on wolves that were too afraid to kill. Were they not born with teeth to slaughter, claws to tear? The wolf was an animal that too could be hunted like the common bush swine in the dark, they put up more of a fight... but the glory was worth the battle scars and Dorus knew this most of all. 

"Well, if you're willing... we can put ya' packs 'blood-thirsty' levels to the test, hm?" The amusement in his worbling tone was due to the other's admission, ah, he almost sounded disappointed in this 'pack'...! No, that wouldn't do. A pack who preached the same message but could not deliver on such really did not favor the atrosities that Dorus wished to commit, for this wolf would be better on his side... not theirs. But there was a silver lining. An idea. A plot.

That one blue eye glowered, as brilliant as a star in the deep dark sky.

"If I bring you a wolf... would they kill that wolf? Would your lovely pack put it down in peace... or would their show it no mercy...? I wonder... how strong the 'wolves' you run with really are."

This man is insane and it only succeeds in piquing his interest so much more. Coughing. A lesson in savagery. Oh yes, yes, a lesson for his little pups. For his lovely pack. No, not a lesson, a gift. They will learn the ways of death or be dealt it. No, no, no. He thinks quickly, he cannot subject his most loyal to that. Kynareth will kill for them, so they shall kill for their Grandmaster. 

A low bubble of rolling laughter slips past his dark lips. He stands — unafraid, risky — and, if allowed, settles his maw beside the ragged males rotting lobe. Whispering sweet, soft words that have a strange aftertaste of the desire for death and destruction. “Then let’s test them.” He murmurs, dangerously into the others ear. 

Then within that split second, a pause. Smooth silence lurking between them, then he’s gone. Spinning to step away a horrid smirk on his maw he excitedly searches for eye contact. “Bring me a wolf and we will offer them a choice. A lesson. A gift. A test of faith so to speak. And they will kill them.” He ends with that wicked glint in his golden orbs. 

A test in faith.

Dorus watches in excited silence as the other disappears into the murky shadows of the forest with the same painted grin as he, half-ears flattened upon his head as said expression devolved into a sneer almost. The skinny creature had no faith. Perhaps in the golden streaked wolf yes, but for the pack he spoke of so listlessly... the outsider gave a low chuckle, turned with lanky legs quivering and set his eyes to the wilds of the north. He would chase their trail. He would drag some poor creature to their doorstep and demand violence.

And as for what he'd get out of this affair... well.

Entertainment was enough.