Mount Everfall your skin knew battle before it knew war

Darcia watched closely as the wolf drifted nearer; the shadows appearing to part for him, his raven-and-smoke pelage taking on a svelte figure that the male couldn't quite keep his golden eyes from. Instinct dictated his attraction to she-wolves— he could never resist a set of slender, dancing hips— but feral preference and a singular need to procure everything of power and beauty, often translated to carnal proclivities that did not concern procreation. Watching this lean, robust specimen now stirred such emotions, and Darcia became intensely aware that he would have liked nothing more than to dominate and claim this male. The wolf who named himself as Nero.

He kept his driving desires behind an unmoved facade, his lantern eyes the only thing moving in the gloom aside from the ripple of goose-pimpled flesh beneath his rain-saturated coat of black and white fur. "I came to visit the mountain that borders the forest I intend to claim. The storm caught me before I got the chance," he easily admitted. "And what of th— yourself?" Darcia returned in a quiet sort of purr, catching himself as his tongue slipped onto the language of Old English. His eyes glittered with naked interest, and the only notion that his attention went elsewhere was the faint flickering of one ear, distracted by the noise of rainfall behind him.