Goin' C R A Z Y **practice**

[.Rabid Lycan.]

((alright Muddy, jump on in-- started it off in the Blood Mist cave dens))

Dawn.
Pale light fluttered almost pitifully from some large crevice somewhere high above, where the steely shade of stone rose high like a pillar, or a fortress. The cave was snug with the warm bodies of inactive soldiers, each dozing away despite the chill in the air. Though it was morning, it was a winter morning, and the faint twinkle of sunshine was quickly dulled with overcast. And from that large crevice, a few fresh snowflakes made their lofty descent—landing gracefully on the nose of a Blood Mist male.
“Ah… ah… ah-CHOO!”
Several wolves stirred, glaring crossly at the disturbance. Temper sniffed helplessly, whiskers still trembling, and looked around with a shrug. “Erm… oops.”
“Just what we needed,” Kill muttered, kicking Temper with her foot. “A combination alarm clock and punching bag.”
Shiver groaned a little. “It’s still dark… if you two don’t shut up in one minute, I’m gonna tuck both your asses in… my way.”


((granted, the alarm clock line shouldn't be in there, but... whatever ))

[mudmudmud]

((WotM -- where wolves know both of alarm clocks AND punching bags xD)

A field of daisies. No... corpses. Yes, the bodies of slain wolves, oozing with blood that could only have been spilled by that of a Blood Mist. The aroma was of death, and only one wolf could enjoy it this much. Gore rolled merrily in the bodies, giggling gleefully as his dark coat was soaked straight through with dark, red liquid. He rolled to his feet, trotting over the rotting remains of the packs. "Red wolf, blue wolf, one wolf, two wolf! AHA-!" His laughing was interrupted by a wolf beneath him sneezing. Shocked, he began stabbing the wolf with a claw....

"DIE DEMON!! TASTE MY WRATH!!" A half-awake Gore was aiming toward the wolf guilty of interrupting his slumber, one separated claw poking and prodding at Temper. However, thankfully, his sister was beside him, roused by the sneeze. Guts rolled him over, pawing forcefully at his head. "... stupid.... no good....
son of a..."

[.Rabid Lycan.]

(( it’s because our wolves are BEAST ))

All at once, a sharp-edged hind leg wiped the apologetic appeal from his face, extracting a yelp from Temper’s chest. Kill snarled disapprovingly, eyeing Temper and Guts with an accusing authority, as if they had killed someone as if they had failed to kill someone. Shiver, ever the mature and experienced member of the group, curled tighter into a sphere, as if she was attempting to melt into the floor. And considering the snow gradually sprinkling into the center of the cave, and the pureness of her coat, it seemed a worthy endeavor.
That is, until Gore and Guts began to make a fuss. Then she uttered a low moan, along with a trail of words, among them the phrase “I hate all of you” and “disembowel”. It wasn’t long before some of the more worrisome residents of the massive den grew alert of some commotion, including Macabre. Shifting the grayscale pattern of his coat, Macabre slowly raised his head. Never the wolf for emotions, he simply turned his head and provided an unwavering stare at the offending figures.
Other wolves, decidedly, did not take so well to the interruption either. Mange rose to his paws, a drowsy scowl on his muzzle, and padded over to Gore and Temper’s side. Unsure who precisely roused him from sleep, he opted to cuff Gore over the head with a paw. “Shut up, you inconsiderate little—”