Blackfeather Woods Ultra Violence

The reaper is silent in his approach when the woman who had graciously fixed up his wounds called. Midnight black head level with his shoulders, he slinks close to the crowd, but not overly so. He knew no one here except the previously mentioned woman and another agouti one that had offered her services to the Beta — now turned Alpha it seems. 

His wounds are sore and scabbed over, far from fully healed. He can’t help but wince and curl his lip at any movement he makes. He feels out of place here amongst these kind souls; he looks out of place here. Still, he stops to listen to her with a type of reluctant respect he’s gained for her. 

Yet, her words displease him so. He feels his heart clench in his chest — white hot anger. This Rowan is gone — the same one she said might know something of his mates. To him their deal has now been cut short and he feels his lip and muzzle wrinkling more with distaste. Has he been gone the whole time and she lied to him? Perhaps. He would interrogate her later about it. For the moment his steely eyes roam the crowd and he doesn’t even hide the boiling anger he feels spreading like a wild fire through his veins. His aura is intentionally off putting and he hopes it will stop others from looking at him or perhaps even talking to him. He doesn’t want to hear a word spoken directly to him unless it is from the new Alphess. So he seethes quietly to himself, pale eyes never leaving her shapely, midnight form. He would get an explanation, but not now — later.