Good day for death to strike
06-30-2013, 06:34 AM
~*~ One second, everything was happy, everything was beautiful, everything was the same as it always was.... and then - then the white wolf leapt up from behind the fallen log. At first Cross had thought that maybe Miss Mercianne had somehow known about their ambush spot and gotten ahead of them.. but that wasn't it at all. The first strike at the pupsitter was so unreal, so impossible, so quick that Cross couldn't comprehend it. The pup slammed on the brakes, and from then on was unable to move. His jaw gaped open, all hint of a smile gone. His green eyes stretched wide with confusion so paralyzing it blocked out any thoughts of fear. With the blood and screams and the movement, it was just like watching the triumphant moment of a hunt. Exactly like. In what felt like the longest moment of Cross's life, Ithurial was suddenly a broken, bleeding carcuss in the snow. Instinctively Cross took a snowy step backwards, trying to place himself between his friend and cousin, and the bloody mouthed stranger. "-I'm in control here-" the white male said. And Cross felt a tremor run through his little body. He crouched, his belly dipping into the snow. But worst of all by far was the second wave of violence - when the pupsitter rose and shouted in defense of her charges. But the next second she was being ripped apart again. The male moved like lightning! And perhaps that was the most paralyzing thing of all. Cross, like alot of pups, had that naive sense of invincibility. After all, he'd just come back out of the south after fighting a bull hadn't he? He had that vague confidence that so long as he could move his feet and bare his teeth, he could come out alright.... But that speed! It was like magic. Who could go against that? And Creator above! Poor Ithurial. Her puppish growls and screams were to haunt the boy for a long time to come, and in that moment, they went a long ways to freezing his blood. "Ithurial!" he squeaked out, half choking under his breath. This all just couldn't happen. It was like something out of one of his mother's stories. Evil wolves killing good ones. Warriors rising up through the blood to challenge the murderers. Souls so strong they kept going no matter the tradgies they'd seen. But they were all just words. Just stories. And this one couldn't be anything but a story, right? This white wolf was a baddie. A villian. And he'd be taken down in the end too! Cross never questioned that. The only variable was how many of the innocents would die at his paws before then. Perhaps it was precisely because it seemed so much like a story that Cross had the strength in his soul to raise his hackles and say in the shakiest, stiffest of growls: "You're not supposed to be here! What-what do you want?" Perhaps not the most eloquent or logical of statements, but what was a kid expected to say to a serial killer? |
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