TRASHED AND SCATTERED [M]

The words did just the opposite of what speaker had hoped. They didn't egg Gargoyle on. They -should- have. But they didn't. Instead, Garogyle found himself just staring at the white back of the male. The big words that had been spewed out. The rackish laughter. The goading. They weren't making this easier. What would've been easier- would be a tower of brooding, thoughtful, cunning power. But this? This was just another young buck turned rabid on wolfs blood. How many of them had Gargoyle seen in his past?

Gods forgive him... he'd -been- one of them.

And just like that the wall fell. And left hanging in mid are was the obvious thought that had been chipping at his mind since the moment he'd stood over Asheni's bleeding corspe. You Were Just. Like. Him. Gargoyle was still ready, still coiled, still physicall prepared to break every bone in the kid's body. And yet... he hesitated, horrified by this truth. Unwanted and unwelcome another, more recent memory flitted back - of the time that Asheni had fallen into the river and had to be pulled out. Gargoyle had tried to dry her off and warm her up - and he'd tasted the blood on her wounds where she'd been cut by the ice. It was the first wolfsblood he'd tasted since the dark days. And it had tasted as good as he remembered.

"Have I shoved my talons further into whatever emotion you came chasing one such as me, on??

Gargoyle's expression, which had remained so stoic through everything, cracked. His brow wrinkled - but not in avenging fury. In pain. In inner turmoil and agony so deep he felt it in his guts. WHAT WAS HE? What was this supposed to mean? He was supposed to be the chief! The protector! The avenger! The white knight! But he wasn't. He was just another Wyrm. And no matter how much good he might do, the scaly shell of that beast would always be there to hurt him. So no. The words didn't dig the 'talons' of vengance in deeper. They didn't incense Gargoyle to kill. ... They just broke his heart.

"Creedance," Gargoyle growled from his seat upon the stone. If the white male turned around then, he'd see the chief sitting there, gold eyes flicking to the ground as his brow grew heavy with thought and memory. He was on the verge of asking why. Of asking a hundred questions that he could ask no one in the world. Why was it that some wolves were evil? Why was it that killing was so easy? What made it so addictive? And what what made it so wrong? But these weren't questions to ask of a snot-nosed child who was dellusional enough to think himself Satan. These weren't questions to ask anyone. Each one was a thorn that just had to be buried away deeper in his heart - always to be hurting, never to be shown.

At last Gargoyle raised his head - his expression still rather unreadable. But in a different way now. It wasn't that there was no emotion. Now it was that there were was too much and too many different kinds. "Let me tell you something straight." So it began - for a moment even the falls themselves seemed to grow quieter. "I don't think you're a freak. I'm not appalled or shocked or terrified by what you've done." His voice lowered: "The truth is... if life had played out just a hair differently- it could've been me standing over that carcuss." His throat tightened with a growl. It was something he had been certain he would tell no one else, but then this male wasn't going to be around long enough to let slip the secret. "I was just like you once," Gargoyle said, gazing steadily now at the male. "And I understand all of it." Slowly, he rose to his paws. "But that's why I -know- you have to be put down. Because I know how addictive, how marvelous, how empowering it is. Take enough lives and their strength seems to flow straight into her soul. You become a twisted god. But even gods fall." - He widened his stance- "And so shall you."