Bearclaw Valley ghost of a monster child

The pack's reaction to Merrick's spectacle was mixed. Aventus could smell the various emotions in the pheromones wafting from each wolf. A mottled grey wolf, a burly sterling silver one, and the impossibly tall black wolf that he'd met before emanated the heady musk of excitement and anticipation, while the cloud-borne Ico, a chocolatey male wolf and a tawny she-wolf seemed nervous or outright upset. This combination of feelings made Aventus' tummy swirl uncomfortably even while his heart beat faster.

If there was ever an opportunity for Aventus to walk the path of atonement for the evils his parents had committed in their lives, now was the time. He could heed the agitated airs of those opposed to this show of violence and grow to become a wolf who abhorred this sort of senseless killing. Did a wolf truly deserve to lose their life for the crime of starving?

But he was the son of Merrick, of Astara, and a descendant of the mad Melonii clan. A Redhawk son, whose line had produced many a mercilessly fierce wolf, even if Indra was not among them. Fate had plans for him, and they didn't include being the anomaly. Aventus crept forward when Merrick beckoned, having understood precious little of what was said, but he didn't need to. The trespasser was immobilized by his suffering and something about that sight, a wolf behaving so much like prey, awakened a hunger in Aventus.

A thin rope of drool fell from his slack jaws as he stared down at the fallen wolf.