sometimes quiet is violent

Not like this.

Every feature of the fell beast was rife with unchecked malice. Evil and darkness clothed him. Junkyard Dog's eyes dogged him with naked terror, jumping around to try and find an avenue of escape. His lip curled up, giving her a view of rows upon rows of pointed teeth. Terror gripped her, adrenaline coursing like fire in her veins, alighting with a vigor unlike any she had felt in better days. Muscles tensed, there was a moment of ma, a space between action and reaction where her body wrestled with it's options. She could fight or she could flee.

Her body chose to flee, and so she did.

Where her mind failed her, her body did not. Thousands of years of selective breeding awoke in her bones, and the intent of the Men who bred her ancestors drove her legs to push her forward. With great speed she ran, though she ached and hungered.