Overture Downs I smell your fear, I smell your fear

The maniac dipped and dived across the snow-blanketed landscape, leaping into great piled of snow, all the while shouting as loud as he could.
"You! You over there! Yes, Aure sweetness come here I won't hurt you -- yet!" He cackled like a hyena, rasping and dry.
"Bow to me you bitch!"  He hollered, before diving down into the snow and biting it as if it were flesh; shredding it as if it was her fur.
Salavating, globs hanging from his joules. He panted in his exertion. Rolling down, his sides heaving, he cuddled up to the flattened snow and murmured, his voice raw and sounding like churning silt,  "Good girl...You're mine."  He blinked slowly and stood, shaking the snow from his fur and looking around. It was starting to sleet and he wanted shelter.

A patch of skeletal trees drew him closer, offering their bones as a home for the night to come. He wandered through the trees, seeking a hollow or fallen trunk to rest for a while. Wait out the downfall. He grumbled and rumbled n thought, dreaming of when he would meet Aure again. Feel her plush fur and listen to that accent that made his fur rise and body quiver. 
He didn't notice he had company for a long long while, not until he'd lay down and was making chirpy comments to himself:
"What do you think? I think she was delightful. Simply sweetening. Purely delectable."

@Natjuk

Winter wails unabated 'cross the lands, searing all with ice. As punishing as the elements are, Natjuk drives on in short-term spurts. Each mighty boreas that lambasts his insignificant form wears him down. A lack of food has made this excursion far more harrying.

There is a slope ahead, hiding within it a cadaverous cluster of trees. An adequate shelter as any. Natjuk makes his way down, slipping into cover. Frost knots itself within his furs. Momentarily forgotten, the loner sinks into the heart of this place. He'll find some hollow and -

Is someone...talking? Natjuk adjusts his course, heading for the sound of chatter. He comes upon a monotone male, having a chat with...with the trees? With himself? He knows not. Chances are the frosts have reached his brain. He'll be dead by morning, if so.

Natjuk watches him mutely with no expression.

His eyes found the form that watched him. His mouth hung agape and his tongue darted out to swipe the spittle from his lips. He hadn't seen anyone since losing his Aure. He hadn't spoken to anyone but himself.
But now, he can chance himself something to play with -- and eat.

"Well hello, stranger," he started, voice soft like waves reclaiming the sand it deposited. He rose, unfurling gangly, dampened limbs that carried him closer to his new friend. His head lowered, haunting eyes watching the man. He stared back.
Boring.

He waited a heartbeat before again sidling closer. watching the man's face, trailing to his ears then neck. The earthen ruff there looked beautiful. It wouldn't go amiss against the ground. Hidden in the undergrowth. He grumbled softly, showing that he is pleased. May it be something the man said? Rakk wasn't listening. Just drinking in the being that seemed to have risen from the ground.
He smiled, then tipped his head back to laugh shrilly, the sound weaving through the trees around them. 

Natjuk grunts. Though he may sound benevolent, his peculiarities rouse suspicion. As if to solidify his eccentricity, he slinks near on spidery legs, probing for some obscure purpose. Natjuk may not have a high opinion of himself but he will not tolerate uninvited proximity. It is blatantly apparent that he is of unsound mind with that dissonant cackle.

Lurching forward without prelude, Natjuk attempts to take the freak's throat between his jowls. He thought it wise to expose it to laugh, after all.

He was laughing and having a  good time, breathing in the many scents the stranger's fur held before he was rudely thrust onto his back. His life connections held in limbo by the man.
What the fuck?

He cowed under the man, the precarious situation changing his mood. All he wanted was to lure the man in, not to be knocked about. Probably.
Rakk wasn't sure what he wanted most days.
His tail curled between his legs, touching his belly, and he whined under the man. A pitiful, low whine that a pup would give when being scolded.

A feeling overcame him. Told him to say something, to get out of the situation.
Some may call it stupid fear, others may just call it stupid.
He called it a way of life.

"I wouldn't have put you as one to want to love me." his voice was starting to rasp in his excitement. He rarely felt like this; he relished it. For now.
"Just show me how much you love me."  He crooned, eyes holding a muted glint of mischief.

In one boisterous motion, the mood shifts. Cuspids arc delicately around the jugular, pulling loose skin tight. Natjuk can feel his pulse; how it quickens under the boorish clamp of his fangs. Precisely like all the prey he's ever killed.

The whine might as well have fallen on deaf ears, too taken in by the oscillation against his teeth.

Words retract from a killer's repose.

How his voice grates as if in the throes of coitus nettles Natjuk. On the precipice death and he still won't cease prattling, making not one bit of sense! Was it the lack of eye contact betwixt them? Did he think him incapable of killing? Spellbound by the pulsations against his fangs, Natjuk spares him then and there. Lucky blighter.

His grasp grows viselike, restricting his airway. Struggling about will kill. With that ever-looming threat, he trusts this madman to have enough self-preservation to stand still. Let nature do the rest and put his yakking to bed.

The deranged storm felt ivories start to dig into him, his pulse thrumming against the teeth of the other. He slowly lost motion, staring up at the one who held him so. Sharp pinpricks tingled the soft skin, almost bare for lack of fur. He groaned softly -- no, grumbled -- then kicked up, twisting with ferocity and panicked shouts emitted from him like a coyote caught by a hunter.

 

He strained to release the stranger's grip, as tight as it was. It made him feel a bit light headed and his breaths came in short heaves. Paws flailing, he hit upwards again, trying to scramble from beneath the earth-man. When he finally succeeded, he threw himself onto all fours with a heave and a grunt. He turned to bare fangs at the man, disappointed that he wanted to kill him. 
"I appreciate the generosity of nature but I am made and cannot be unmade!"
He didn't know what nonsense he was hollering but somewhere, in the throws of his mind, something between the earth-man and the nature of his character connected. And concluded that the one who birthed him was trying to unmake him.

With his final shout, he bolted, a stormcloud ignited on land and made to wreak the world and tear it apart. Tear apart the inhabitants.
One at a time.
That is if he himself doesn't get shredded first.

Just say if this is too much PP!

As minutes tick on by, lethargy settles in. Isolation and frost has frayed his vigilance. As such, his hold slackens. That is when the beast comes back alive, jumping, yipping, and jostling his tired body. His grip is now scant, his mouth full of naught but silver hair.

Natjuk strives to take him by the throat in one last attempt to quell him - forever, this time. But the other is agile in retaliation, kicking at his face with paws. The sensation of travel-worn paws slapping his face is enough to make him flinch. A snarl rips free. Natjuk snaps but fails in snagging anything.

What a fool! As if there is truth to his spiel. He can be unmade. Easily.

Natjuk charges after him, enlivened by his withdrawal. That slim build and those long limbs are of some use, it seems; the escapee is nimble on his feet, eluding the snag of slavering fangs on his hind end and putting some distance between him. Natjuk is not a speedy creature. At all. But the sight of the fleeing wolf has struck a fuse within him; igniting the most primal parts of his psyche. He gives chase, coming upon him and snapping loudly at his back thigh.

He will not stop until his prey stumbles or flees this forest.

Rakk, for whatever unknown reason, was possessed with the urge to fight his follower. He didn't like to be chased down like some deer awaiting carrion status, it seemed. He rose up and pivoted, coming down on the earth-man with paws battering his face.

Idiot, he is now unbalanced and left his underside open for attack.

Her let a snarl ripple through him like a glacial river as he brought teeth down upon the man, though they barely raked through earthen scruff.
To an onlooker, it may seem the sky and earth had met to lock in mortal combat, yet neither the sky could never touch the ground with a great deal of harm. Yet the Earth could render the sky a mere memory for it can trap and conceal all that found their way beneath the surface.

So, the storm cloud reigned down on the earth, snapping with harmless teeth and great batterings and flailings of paws, creating a tremendous racket. Snow fell upon the two, fingering sweeps finding their way through the tree bones to settle and coat their furs, only to melt and run off, making the pair damper as they went on.
The fool refused to stop, not letting up until he inevitably got injured.
Then, his cowardness would return.

He may not have hit his mark but he did rankle his adversary enough to turn and face him, evidently fed up in being hounded. To him, it was an untrained and ignorant decision. Why face him when he could have sped up and run off? Whatever the reason, Natjuk knows he will not get another opportunity to vandalize him.

Natjuk ravenously engages, rebuffing most advances with a mixture of force and reactive snaps. He is not sure if the other is holding back, ivories combing taupe fur. Only when they make their mark does Natjuk return tenfold, continually snapping and rending wherever he can land a hit. It is not a mindless flurry (though it might look like it to the untrained eye); he keeps his head low and his throat guarded. He will not make the same mistakes the jester has.

Blood oozes from perforations on his cheek, chest, and arm. The pain is gasoline to his already choleric fire.

Reeling backwards after grappling with the man, his ear poured blood, maw covered in oozing nicks and a grim chunk was removed from his cheek at some point. 
The pain was starting to overwhelm his senses so, naturally, with an anguished yowl he turned and started to flee again, his face burned in protest as his maw hung agape to try and process enough oxygen. 

He did not stop running this time, even if he were pursued. His tail was tucked between his legs, head hung low, a streak of lightning. He ran until he left the trees and ran towards the mountains. There would be safer. 
For now. 

Blood abates his furor. It is sugary in supplication.

In the presence of death, the other turns tail and runs. Natjuk pursues a while, going so far as to exit the diminutive cover. He follows the unknowing pathfinder, decelerating to a stop yards away from his current lodging.

Looks like the clown has had enough, racing clear of the shroud and heading for the mountains. Best judgment he's made today. He barks ferociously. A promise for his ears only: next we meet, I'll have your head. Once the snows swallow him from sight, Natjuk wipes the saliva and blood from his mouth. He withdraws back into cover, settling into its depths to rest and check his wounds.