Noctisardor Bypass Have a seat in the foyer, take a number

He hadn't even attacked. Yet. However, less words needed to be slaughtered in the situation as the russet sprang with the temper that normal subordinates would be culled by. Cry was no such toddler. He was trained under Slade, the King of Nightmares and a murderer by nature, refined by Raziel, Roman ruler with ruthless fangs to those who knew not when and when not to act accordingly, and imbued with the fearlessness of Stavanger's cold beach pack, the family of viking led wolves just as merciless as the waves that both hounded the bay as it did to ensnare souls with it's relentless beauty. He was most of all, an assassin, hunter of those who were top on a list of the Damned. Horosk was a pack mate, yes, his superior, yes, but to Cry, something as silly as ranks meant shit to him. Your rank was not handed to you. Your rank was earned.
Today would be the day the assassin would see if this Medio was worth being respected for a decision that quite frankly, was foolish.

Cry braced his fours within the ground, claws that vexed into the soil doing well to latch onto dirt and root systems he semi-conciously sought for. After rooting himself in, he dipped low and prepared for the impact, the nape of his ruff exposed and his shoulders welcoming the brute force. Once that smashing hit came, Cry thrust himself up, his aim to shove the russet cleanly from him, refusing the superiors furious embrace.

"You have proved not only you are a pup, but an inept child! We could have taken that swine of a sister down together, since you are too cowbrained and pussy-footed to do it yourself," he taunted through both righteous fury and a wrath of justified fire.