Otter Creek i'd rather you did not turn your skunk bath into a giant cocktail

The yearling barrels through the tree line, leaving a gap in the scenery where shadows once covered, illuminating his intimidating, pale figure as he waltzed threateningly through and beyond, to stand hackles raised and ears placed back against his skull, before the scene. But his presence is one that reeks of fury; ears adept had caught quick notice of the cried yelp of one of his youngest siblings near the bloodied border, and no sooner had he made his way towards the beacon. Enraged eyes fall heavily upon the sight of an unknown individual, a rouge equipped with a sinister smile and he needs no further explanation. "Who the fuck are you?" A heathen snarl balances on his lips and quickly realizes that frankly, he doesn't care who she is. The identity of those who fall as prey under his claws mean shit all to him, and the lack of a pack scent upon her gives him all the confirmation he needs to do what endarkened instinct begs of him. Hesitance forgotten, he lunges at the unknown woman, claws extended and wholly reckless in his attack. Lethal fangs seek her neck in the movement, a bout of extreme, bloodlusted malice within the way he does. It has been too long. The titan's salmon tongue has not tasted another's blood in many moons, and he is starved. It can be seen as he descends upon her like the predator to prey; volatile and hungry for retribution-by-death for whatever she had intended to do. But admittedly, he yearns to shred her apart, to sever head from body not just for the price of her actions, no. To satisfy his eternal need for destruction, and the desired finality of death of others by his will, a sense of power in justification he can get nowehere else.