the hills have eyes.

. . .

The boy took a long whiff of the surrounding lands. One scent prevailed about the others - blood; sweet, matallic, tangy. The place was stained in it.

The white wolf's features were fixed in the birthings of a snarl - just a hit of wrinkle to his nose, a hit of fang to his muzzle. It was clear, youth or not, that the boy fully understood what sort of land he was walking into. But Cross had resigned himself to a violent death long ago. All that was left to the fates was where and when. However, he preferred to have it later than sooner, and in order for that preference to have any weight, he needed to keep training, keeping pushing himself, keep honing his skills in any way possible. Cross had the benefit of a long bloodline of warriors. His mother was a vetran of a Far Northern war, who'd taken off the head of the demon Xy and planted it on the peak of Mt Animi. His father was a silent beast from the Far North who'd been born with ice in his veins. The kid had alot going for him - but also alot to live up to.

Hence the reason \why he had chosen to come here. He was looking for a new oppoenant with new weaknesses and new skills and new style. Preferably someone who was a little more advanced than his siblings and cousins, but not at the expert level of his adult packmates. He wasn't looking to be turned into roadkill. The youth clung to the shadows and edges, listening and scenting carefully, as intent to find the right opponent as he was to stay out of the way of the wrong ones.

That was when he heard the howl. It was masculine and deep enough to denote size, but young enough to be exactly what Cross was looking for. Hitching up his pace to a sway-backed trot, he lowered her head and pinned back his ears to slink off towards the source.

-Which soon enough turned out to be a fellow young male. The other boy was robust looking, and large by any standard by Cross's. Then again, Cross was from a family of huge wolves who had a habit of being born leggy. At a year old, Cross was 33-34 inches tall, but very skinny and lanky in portion. In fact, had it not been for the fluffiness of his coat he would've more resembled some freakish white coyote than the Timber/Arctic cross he was. Given another year he would gain the remaining 3-4 inches and his muscles would all fill out proudly, but even so, he was larger than any yearling had a right to be. However - Cross was pleased to observe - so was his new opponent.

Emerald eyes analyzed the other wolf, looking for hints at balance and form, ah but Cross was still too inexperienced to be any master at that. For the most part all he saw was the obvious - rare purple eyes, fur so black it glinted violet, and a potential for bear-like size revealed in the width of those paws he stood on rather impatiently.

Briefly Cross wondered about him. What path had lead another yearling male to seek the battlefield? Like Cross, was he a soul troubled from the sight of too much red work done in the night? The ivory youth had no love for strangers, but there was just enough of the child in him to still be curious. He wasn't here looking for a confidant or a friend (though he had to admit this boy reminded him strongly of his cousin Kairos, whom he considered his only brother-in-arms). He was here looking for someone to train with. A rival. An opponent. They would talk later when they were licking their wounds - Assuming the other lad didn't have death on his mind. Cross was prepared to be as gentle or as sharp of fang as the other wished. He'd let him take the lead in the dance.

They had had enough time to look the other over. Now, without a word, Cross widened his stance, letting his supple joints bend slightly, and one foreleg slide forward. His ears flicked back. His tail raised proudly. It was a clear invitation.

. . .