the golden age come and passed

Apollo nearly laid his ears back in irritation at the creature's words. "A god to what species?" he clarified coldly. Somehow he couldn't picture the Fallen God of the Abraxas covered in dirt and scratching himself alone in the woods. Except for those wicked tusks, the creatures teeth, he'd seen when it opened its mouth to speak, were all those of a prey animal, made for grinding vegetation, not for flesh. God or not, the god of a prey animal would always be inferior to a predator. What forsaken prey animal would worship this god? "I am Apollo Abraxas," he told the creature with clipped tones. "Child of Abraxas, the Fallen God. A wolf god," he added, with a hint of fangs showing. "A Predator who will swallow this world and bring its inhabitants to His worship." He didn't know what had driven him to speak so openly about a subject that he was normally much more reticent on, except perhaps the creature's clear disdain provoked the rage that Apollo hid within him. Analytically, his eyes flicked over the beast once again, confirming that he was well out of reach and that there was nothing blocking his way if he needed to leap aside.