TRASHED AND SCATTERED [M]

It pleased him to let the male go on waiting. With every passing moment, with every move the male took, Gargoyle was learning something about his opponent. And though the cretin looked away, Gargoyle could see that the beast's ears were trained on him. He was still very attentive to this dark pelted wolf that had appeared out of the shadows. Perhaps a little too attentive. Was he scaring the beast already? If he was, it only meant that the white male was perceptive. Death had never taken a purer form than the Timber cross with the tattered ear.

Gargoyle could've charged in at once, fangs gleaming like so many knives. With every passing moment he felt in inner hellfire, grow, licking at his very bones. The longer he dragged out the seconds, the strength would be his to lay claim to. Besides, after looking for this male for so long, in so many places, he was imprinted with morbid curiosity. He would use the time to disect the white male, not literally as he'd once been known to do his victims. No, Gargoyle would read into his words, into his expressions. He wanted to see what kind of pitiful excuse for a brain fueled this creature that was nigh his match for size and height.

In time, when the other beast could take the silence no longer, he'd let fall words, ending with a question of why Gargoyle was out and about. To that, all Gargoyle had to offer was another strained, slow half-minute of silence and unblinking yellow eyes. Then: "What's your name?"