Silvertip Mountain Don't look. Hide (mtr.)

The metallic tang had left a taste of inspiration - of listlessness that had been unresolved for far too long. It had been so long since he had tasted that sweet flavor and relished in it wholly. The spike in heart rate could only mean that the blood belonged to one of his own. The initial scent of it had been euphoric. So driven by that familiar lust, the beast had all but burst at the premise. The diversion was a welcome and abrupt change of course. The thick coat of blood on his tongue, painted against his lips, fueling his desires from the roof of his mouth, but it wasn't enough. The stilted hound trailed after the scores of blood against earth. He paused at each to relish the flavor and correct his path with newfound glee. After some time, the path was clear. Ithrik ventured after, excitedly and obsessively hunting for his prey. When the scent of the young, harmed creature was all but palpable, he had finally found the hole where his mark had made a temporary resting spot. The dark man stood at the cave entrance, hungering for that aroma. His dark lips were coated in a thick coat of saliva. Each desperate wipe of his tongue was a reminder of the taste he needed. 

Stepping into the dark cavern, the mad hunter shuddered violently. His steps swayed to the right before he staggered back to a straight position. The form of the other wolf was just ahead. The form of the young was slumped into a resting position on the cave floor. The blood had caked over the wounds, but Ithrik could feel the skin's plea for release. It was as though his own flesh was tugged against him, suffocating him. He lapped at the floor, firelight gaze locked on the supple figure of the young in front of him. The wound was almost a shame. If he were to rape the sleeping shape, it likely would not survive. If he was to have his way with it, he would be required to be gentle. He knew well enough that he had been too deprived to reserve himself. The scent of it's blood would be enough to ignite a violence in him that would only be satisfied by a corpse. 

But patience was never so hard. 

The boogeyman slunk a few paces from the wounded figure and leaned back to his haunches. The burning of his gaze did not leave the resting creature. The winds swept through the cave and whipped against his flesh, breaking the surface into a series of goosebumps. His mind waged war, bearing fangs at the premise of taking this life without restraint, and waiting for the expression of horror upon waking to find it's present company. That look of fear was so delightful. The waking nightmare looming merely a few paces away. When the wind swept through his pale ruff again, his lips quivered, a growl rose from the depths of his chest. The lash of his tongue carried the sound of thunder. His hackles rose with heightened confidence, adrenaline spiking through his body. Ithrik rose and merrily approached the figure on the floor once more.