Ghosts of the Forgotten

Since the birth of his pps Tyranis had been restless. He was no great hunter like his brother but small game rarely eluded him. Whatever he found that was too scrawny to please the cunt that had bore his children he at least could salvage the fur of to make her den warmer. He’d gotten tired very quickly of the schemed Hannibal, his whore with the unpronounceable name, and Leera seemed to be making when his back was turned, and he liked even less that Hannibal’s apparent loyalty was founded entirely on bringing members to his pack that were entirely devoted to himself. Unfortunately for them there were no secrets in his own lands, not while his raven watched the skies and from the shadows and his serpent from the grass beneath their feet. He would take them all to task on it eventually, but not today. Today was for himself.

He trotted briskly through the metal graveyard, his companions long behind him watching the plotting mice that thought the cat was away. He had been here once before, at the height of his pack’s foundation, and he had hoped to find something interesting to occupy his final days as a loner but had found nothing. Today it seemed however there was something to take his mind from his tremulous thoughts and he approached it with the pride and regality afforded to him as a ruler of people.

“Good evening ma’am.” He greeted the woman coated in spirals of orange and black like a jeweled viper.

Speaking  Thinking You