Emberwood i wanna be anywhere but here, always

Further tracking down the scent, Kratos perks dark rimmed ears at the sudden cease—abrupt in their curtain fall, as if something is afoot. The languid pace of his picks up just as swift, marching ahead with the power of a raging bull. His teeth are his horns, and his muscles flexing underneath his coat of rust and black.
The nickname of Firestorm suits him well—for he arrives as one, blazing full and ready to mar. Pale gold eyes happen upon the scene with lips pulled in defense, yet they weaken as the tussle goes about without true teeth and blood. The only stench of rotten flesh nearby, and Kratos slows his pace, languid again as he lazily walks towards the two.
He is not exactly gentle when he goes for the scruff of the mottled brown boy in attempt to pull him away from Zephyr. Don’t flirt with what is mine.