THE SAINTS WE SEE ARE ALL MADE OF GOLD;

Hidden in the shadows, lurked an obsidian mass, sleek and toned, every curve sharp and angled, bulging from the umbrage in a mass of smooth fur. Beneath this dark cloak, lay a clean slate for an array of trophies? battle scars ?to proudly display to those who should seek his prideful state of mind, especially his sire, a strong Olympus, one to be honored, rather than sinned for his lineage. The hellions should run amok in the Olympian lands, rather than gods and goddesses to be worshipped, to be imprisoned and locked away beneath a key, long lost to any creature.

Muscles would ripple beneath his cloak, as stilts would take form to raise the male, a small yawn escaping from his maw. Beneath obsidian pads, the overturned earth resented his presence, creating a dusty surface to walk and see about, and the ever-impending wind should not assist in battle. Battle... How he had been starved from the wanderlust blood would bring to his otherwise pure stature. The obsidian armored gladiator would peer about the clearing, where many honorable wars had taken place. Blood clad the air with a metallic otherworldly scent, which furthered his desires for the pulse of Adrenaline. Easily it would be simply practice for what could be a much greater war in the making. It would only gain praise from his otherwise unimpressed father. Pads would scuff over a stone as he padded toward the center of the empty clearing, kicking it away. 'Just what do I have to do to impress my own seed?' Burning coals would once more sweep across the clear fields, before his crown would tip, in a howl, to summon one worthy enough to meet his call, and to fight a valiant battle, one of little chivalry, and of pure bloodlust...