drippin' blue blood from my wrist

The fiend stared, his broad head tilted slightly to the right as steely eyes traced her expression, as if he did not already read that she was frightened. The fear was still there though, quaking despite the fact that he had very much tried to scare it away (again another lovely contradiction Svetovid posed upon himself and his surroundings). He waited another second, silent although his mere presence and face spoke loudly a number of harsh and fearsome things. It still was there. A vile concoction of fiery anger and putrid offense broiled within his chest. He held it there for a moment, and inhaled deeply, allowing it only to contort his face a tad further. His eyes narrowed more, and his lips pursed tightly. ”What?” he finally expelled the word as if it were the breath he’d been holding. ”Fuck off then. I’m not going to hurt you,” he spat, leaning forward and puffing slightly in a “scram” sort of gesture. The smaller wolf’s survival skills needed a tuning, he thought grumpily. She should’ve run right away, if she really thought he was a threat. With a dismissive (although… almost dejectedly so) snort, he quickly turned his head down and to the right, slinking back to the tree to drop his rear to the ground and lean himself against the trunk.