Iktome Plains And when the crimson moon comes up, he drinks the blood of slaves

@Mazatl

He hungered.

It was a curious combination of sensations that he doubted pradă had ever felt before. A growling of the stomach, a fantasy in his head, a burning in his loins, a tug at his very being. Yes, this hunger, this desire for life's very essence, was not something ordinary wolves ever felt, no. It was reserved for the strigoi, hunters amongst wolves, alone. And he relished it.

For too long he had satiated himself on the life's blood of seabirds. He was familiar enough with the coast to hunt prey now. He idly licked his fangs — longer than most, perfect for slicing flesh — imagining that taste. For the moment he was alone in the plains, but he knew there were others. Their scents alone betrayed their presence. He would find his prey sooner or later.