Hideaway Strath old gods still prowl among the thickets

Cry had turned to catch nothing but echoes meeting his response to this fucked up scenario. As one would think a forest could allow sound to remain trapped, and be easily pinpointed, it was quite the opposite. And his opponent knew it. He was being precisely toyed with, scents becoming suffocating as he couldn't release his focus to try relocating where their source would be for fear of being caught off-guard, or even with his back turned for a slight second. It was an absolute disaster. 

But once given the gift of knowing, Cry had turned with accute honing as his target revealed themself from behind a scrawl of brambles. They had blended in completely, and Cry could appreciate them using the matching of dead colors to be their camoflauge. The response came out, and every single fleck of air that ommitted it was glinting with poisoned saliva, and it was punctuated with a heartstopping abrupt of mystery. Cry could handle the poison, knowing he could easily evade or engage, but the mystery was what set him rigid. That mystery was not knowing whether the foe in fact would take up on forcing him to engage or evade. 
But Cry had pessimism for that. He would assume this was going to be no easy matter to walk away from. 

And it didn't help that this anonymous soul had a way of reminding him of Slade, and his mindgames.

Narrowing a frigid winter gaze at this newfound wolf, the Assassin replied with solid resolve. "Then you will be put down, and destroyed." But his body however, remained neutral. No aggression not demonstration of arrogance from the older male, but the conviction was there. Cry had killed a plenty, but he hadn't sparred with anyone other than Grayson as of recently, and he would have potentially been rusty on his lethality skills. That rust would be enough to get him killed. Yet Cry was not simply a hitman...

He was an intellectual. 

"But we would be better off not killing each other, as Winter takes pity on none."

Lifting his chin only slightly, he regarded this beast. Damn, he looked feral. This man had the dexterity of a panther, fluidity beeing bound through every angled and sharp limb that stood seemingly ready to spring directly for him. This bastard was brazen, but biding, and Cry didn't know how long he would bide until he lashed out and started biting. Cry couldn't risk any injuries right now - the pack hadn't been formed yet, and the Family needed him to stay strong. To stay alive.