Dragoncrest Cliffs 'cause london is drowing and i live by the river

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He feels his eyes on her, and it makes him nervous. She circles him, inspecting, assessing, and he holds his frigid stance, unable to do anything else in that moment. He knows if he opens his mouth, he will not be heard for his words are poision; the only words he knows. He has never been taught otherwise. Anger in its every form is all he has come to know. Isengrim is almost certian the woman will not stand for it. But as she sets back, letting loose a chuff of physical approval in his direction, and only then does he lift his eyes, standing in the process. She stares, and he stares back, heavy but silent breaths simply awaiting a verdict he is yet to recieve. But his eyes do not reflect the anticipation he has within him, but the endarkened yearn of approval, of the desire to partake in the power he knows this woman and her pack holds. It reflects nothing of youthful ignorance nor the weakness associated with his age. He is a teen but he is angry, and as his father, he knows little restraint to his bite when his bite is focused on the object of his anger.

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