Firefly Glen i used to dream

Nostrils flare in irritation. The stench won’t leave him—no matter what he does, it sticks and it lights a undesirable fire within the ruddy boy. The howl replays, echoing within his black ears. It sends a shiver up his spine. He hates it all. The urge feels like the need to fight. In the end, he leaves.
South he strides with a purpose in his step. The aura of rage seeping off him. Eyebrows etched downwards, lips pulled in such a sharp, exaggerated frown that struggles to keep teeth in line. He wants to rip into flesh. At first, he debates a leg, he could easily reach his own, and the pain might just be what he needs to subside the feeling.
Yet the scent of a fresh kill lures him in like a moth to flame. Where there is a kill, there must be another wolf—and where there is another wolf, there is another fight. His lip twitches.