Lone Star Mountain graustufen

a fine and bloody ballet; an ancient dance that culled the weak and tested the strong. an assailment befitting castle walls and ironwrought gates; in silence and with the churn of bloodlust thrumming in the both of them. their quarry beat out the last of its heart in a winding stumble that bespattered the stone with scarlet.
and after came the wolf-trot, the steady lope designed to devour miles, though this evening, nothing quite so long was demanded of the pair. and a pair they were; mahler matched his pace to that of the other, and found in tandem a satisfaction he had not felt before. 
eyes that held the colder moonbow; a stately gait for the imposing sword of a wolf, and in the gargoyle's heart there burned a pride, one that only grew in conflagration when they came round a bend and found their ram downed, flanks fluttering with final breaths. first kill. first blood. first bond of a brotherhood already existent in the form of the dying creature.