It's what you know

The scent of mahogany and leather drifted toward him, mingling with the damp, earthy air and faint traces of prey nearby. But the core of it was hers—he was certain. Even as his attention flickered toward the underlying notes of a hunt and bloodshed, always calling to him, he remained still, watching the woman. His breath hitched, muscles tensing as his claws pressed into the soil, an instinctive response to the tension rising within. A subtle, persistent urge whispered to challenge her. She was different—new. And he relished testing the unfamiliar.

Her movements had purpose, though not the kind he had anticipated. Redrum had heard of her family joining his mother’s pack, but seeing her—and any of them, really—in person was something else entirely. He had never witnessed another family unit up close, had never seen the unity or power that came from shared blood. A force, perhaps—thick muscles, tension rippling beneath rugged fur—it all spoke of battle, of strength. She didn’t seem like one who belonged among herbs, not by any stretch of the imagination. But here she was. And restless. His curiosity was ravenous.

His ears pinned back as he shifted, gaze locked onto her as she continued her tedious task. He had no mind for the healing craft, all the crimson brute knew was the color red in every form. He inhaled deeply, an uneven breath escaping as the predatory drive flared in his chest. His muscles twitched again, his jaw tightening as thoughts of approaching flickered through his mind. But he hesitated. There was something about her—something that gave him pause. She wasn’t a wolf to be approached carelessly, though he couldn’t pinpoint why. He hadn’t known fear since his attack as a child—but maybe… This was something akin to anticipation.

He tilted his head, studying her in silence for a long moment before making his decision. His movements became fluid, deliberate. He prowled forward, confident yet marked by a peculiar oddness that was distinctly his. His golden eyes tracked her every motion, but his body language conveyed no threat, no ambush. He was, as usual, somewhere between the timing of a stalk and a lunge. His skull hung low between his shoulders, inviting her to notice him without the need for stealth. This wasn’t a hunt—it was a meeting, and now that he had stepped into her presence, retreat was no longer an option. “Hates herbs. But then– why does she collect– them? Masochist?” He rumbled out, eyes flashing from her task to the dirt on her paws, and back to her face. Fangs peeked out from his lips as he spoke, skin rippling with barely contained muscular spasms.


"Murder"