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+---- Thread: [Training] a conversation about identity (/showthread.php?tid=11697)
RE: a conversation about identity - Flora - 07-23-2025
Flora knows that she's dangerously close to repeating old mistakes, even as her blade bites into him—knows the exact shape of this illusion: the flicker of control, the false high of holding the monster at bay. She’s danced this razor line with Astaroth once already, thought she understood the rhythm and the risk. And yet here she is again, heart pounding like a war drum, breath sharp as frost, with the shadows rising like tidewater and the butcher grinning through pain like it’s a gift.
But the dagger did stop him, and that tiny, treacherous fact lets her believe—if only for a second—that she’s still got her hands on the reins.
[say]"A little pain’s never stopped you before, has it?"[/say] she murmurs, her smirk dark as spilled wine, sharp enough to cut if he leaned too close. The sound of his voice—a wrong-note chord vibrating through the bones of the clearing—sets every hair on her neck on end, but she doesn’t flinch. Not as the shadows ripple, not as his grin widens like a rift.
Her hand reaches forward, fingers parting the veil of dark like pushing through brambles. The illusion clings, writhes, but her palm finds something solid—his chest, or maybe his stomach, heat thrumming beneath the surface like a live wire. She doesn’t wait before pulling her blade free in a single clean motion, just as her other hand presses flush to his body, the ring on her finger pulsing softly with healing magic.
RE: a conversation about identity - Astaroth - 07-25-2025
She does to an extent, have her hand on the reins. Because he’s a gentleman despite the season that would prove otherwise. And he adores her so much that he wouldn’t want to prolong the torment if he doesn’t have to. He’d gotten what he wanted - a grand fight - even if he bleeds like a little pincushion full of liquid each time she withdraws her blades.
Her murmur and dark smirk bright a cacophony of distorted laughter, both from him and his shadows before he has a deigns to let it fall. “[say]And it shall continue to not stop me, do not worry.[/say]” He murmurs back with confidence, voices whispered and off kilter, meshing against one another in rough vibrations meant to drive one’s senses into confusion and terror. It may stop him for the moment, but Astaroth has always been a lose a few battles to win the war type of man. She parts his shadows and sharp smiles, the teeth that vibrate and shift in ways that aren’t physically possible but manage to move just perfectly in spite of it as she finds his sternum. The fabric slick with blood that she presses against.
He’s in a holding pattern, stilled enough to let her continue given that he thinks the spar is over — or at least, coming to a close. And rather than the spark of pain he half expects to feel against his already sore and bleeding chest, it’s her healing that washes over him with a bout of relief. The illusion begins to drop, slowly at first then all at once, leaving him standing there with blood soaking his clothes and his too sharp smile far too close to her. “[say]How very kind of you.[/say]” He purrs, dipping his chin down toward her.
RE: a conversation about identity - Flora - 07-26-2025
Flora knows the teeth aren’t real. Knows the twisted faces and writhing shadows, the wrongness of his voice and the too-wide grin—none of it is real in the way that matters. It’s all illusion, all haunt and smoke and sharpened glamour. But gods, her body doesn’t care. Every instinct screams run, begs her to get the hell away from the monster he’s wearing like a second skin. Even knowing it’s him beneath, even feeling the weight and heat of his body under her palm, still her nerves bristle, her breath catching with the kind of tension that’s stitched into bone.
Her hand stays pressed against him, blood slipping between her fingers as the ring hums steady, soft warmth threading through the violence. She watches as the nightmare peels away—slowly at first, then in a rush, like a mask dissolving in rain—and when it’s Asta again, properly Asta, standing close with a too-sharp smile and his chin dipped toward her, Flora breathes out like she’s been holding her lungs hostage.
Her smile comes slow but genuine, bright despite the sweat and blood smudged at her temple. [say]"Gods,"[/say] she says, her voice low and warm, [say]"I actually kind of enjoyed that."[/say]
There’s a flicker of mischief in her eyes, that familiar gleam like she’s just gotten away with something terribly clever. [say]"Is that terrible to say? I don’t usually get to really go all in with my daggers."[/say] She leans in a fraction, hand still on his chest and her curls brushing her cheek as her smile softens into something undeniably fond. [say]"So... thanks for indulging me."[/say]
RE: a conversation about identity - Astaroth - 07-28-2025
They stay connected in this bloody tango they’ve both participated in - even if the blood that soaks his clothes no longer has a source to come from. It leaves a stark coolness with each gentle breeze that blurs through the trees and passes by Flora, flitting his senses with all the scents of her along the faint hint of roasted pumpkin. He doesn’t move, just stays precisely where he is, pressed against her hand like she’s the only thing that’s steady as he takes in the sensation that he isn’t in pain as he had been before.
Her smile is slower, bright, even if they’ve dirtied each other up in the process of this spar. And the butcher listens, eyes slipping shut for a few moments longer before his low chuckle joins her own. “[say]As did I.[/say]” It wasn’t often that he also got to fully let loose. At least, not without feeling as horrible for nailing her with a punch actually aimed to harm. Perhaps he should take advantage of the Rage Room more often if this is the kind of ethereal sensation it can bring.
Or maybe it’s just the season.
His dark gaze opens again, focusing on her and spotting her mischief as his tail flicks comfortably behind him. “[say]I am honored to be your pin cushion, Flora, darling.[/say]” He hums, exhaustion lingering in his bones in a way that’s only so menially satisfied this season. His hand lifts, covering her own in a gentle and hot touch, leaning in just as much as she has before his other hand lifts to slip around the small of her back and tug her in for a hug, smooshing her hand against his chest so that he doesn’t ruin her clothing with the sticky blood still on the front of his chest. “[say]I did hit you quite hard, admittedly. Are you in need of healing as well?[/say]” He asks, withdrawing slightly to look her over, unsure if her ring could completely heal everything or if it had a certain amount of charges she could use.
RE: a conversation about identity - Flora - 07-28-2025
Flora stays tucked against him without hesitation, their messy, half-savage spar leaving behind a sense of satisfaction that hums warmly beneath her skin. The sharp edges of adrenaline have dulled into something giddy and companionable, her ribs still sore but her smile brighter than it has any right to be, especially with blood on her sleeves and shadow-smoke still clinging faintly to the air.
Grinning up at Asta, her cheek pressed comfortably against the slick warmth of his chest, she lets her thoughts tumble out before they get too filtered. [say]"We should definitely beat each other up more,"[/say] she announces cheerfully, her voice muffled slightly by his shirt. [say]"I’m tougher than I look. And faster."[/say] Her grin sharpens as her thoughts wind down the same pathway as his was. [say]"We could use the rage room and make up rules. You can exit twice, but every time you leave it lowers your score, and whoever’s still standing or has the most points wins."[/say]
She taps her fingers lightly against his sternum, playful despite the blood. [say]"Honestly, not the reason I thought I'd ever use the rage room, but could be fun."[/say]
As he smooshes her hand more firmly against him in a well-intentioned effort not to ruin her coat, Flora laughs softly, the sound vibrating gently between them. She shakes her head against him when he pulls back slightly to ask after her injuries. [say]"I healed on the fly,"[/say] she assures him, her tone affectionate. [say]"But—"[/say] her eyes glint up at him, conspiratorial and fond, [say]"that was a really good hit. Might need to ice it later just so I can dramatically moan about it to someone."[/say] Not that she had anyone to moan to, but that was for later-Flora to figure out.
Flora shifts slightly in his arms, just enough to tilt her chin up and catch his gaze. [say]"Are you staying out here a while longer?"[/say] she asks, fingers still idly tracing a small, invisible circle against his chest, [say]"or do you want to walk me back into town and maybe see if you can handle getting a drink without biting anyone?"[/say]
RE: a conversation about identity - Astaroth - 07-29-2025
He finds he adores this version of her — the one that doesn’t filter her thoughts but instead lets them tumble out with all kinds of interpretation up for grabs. And luckily for him, he knows her well enough to read between the lines of it when her cheerful claim reaches his ears, his own low chuckle vibrating out of his chest and past too sharp teeth as he inclines his horned head in agreement. “[say]We should. And gods, darling, you are quite fast.[/say]” She was lithe and agile, like a cat turning into a liquid to get wherever she needed to be. He was willowy and thin, but he harbored enough strength and typically steady footing that it made him quite the weighted brawler.
But then again, Asta had never needed to be fast and evasive. He was a punisher, not the beautiful widow in the night that was hard to pin down. He wanted whomever he’d focused on to know it was him doing the damage and that he could not be shaken. “[say]Ooh, perfect.[/say]” He chuckles, indulging the warmth seeped from her hand as her fingers tap against his sternum, his thumb brushing against the back of her hand. “[say]It is not unlike how I imagined to use it. Though I shall tell you I have a habit of not giving up if I know that I have nothing to lose.[/say]” His smile is sharper, not exactly a threat but a playful taunt, a challenge.
As for his concern with her healing, though, the butcher scans her over and takes note of the dried blood clinging to her skin and finds very little in the way of wounds beneath them. “[say]Moan about it to me so at least my ego can remain mostly intact.[/say]” He hums thoughtfully, brows lifting with a twist of a smirk on his face as he catches her gaze when she shifts, his arm winding around her a little tighter as he radiates heat.
Her question has him tearing his gaze away from her beautiful blues, glancing back toward the roasted pumpkin, before he’s angling back toward her with a shake of his head. “[say]So long as I have something to sink my teeth into, I believe I can manage it.[/say]” Whether that’s truly a thing or a person is another story. But that’s for later Asta to find out.
So he unwraps himself from around her, but not before an affectionate nuzzle to her forehead is offered, withdrawing to offer his arm to her. “[say]And I suppose if I cannot handle it, I do have a muzzle back at the Dusklight I could be convinced to wear.[/say]” His tail flicks idly against his heels and brushes up against her leg, before he’s heading them back toward the rest of civilization.
RE: a conversation about identity - Flora - 07-29-2025
Flora grins crookedly up at him, mischief still tugging at the corner of her mouth—but it fades a little as her voice drops lower, quieter beneath the rustling leaves. [say]"I don’t just want to be fast, y'know,"[/say] she says, the words threading out like something she’s been chewing on for a while, [say]"I want to be deadly."[/say] Her fingers go still against his chest. [say]"I’ve killed things with my daggers before,"[/say] she continues, her blue eyes lifting to meet his, darkening like the sea before a storm. [say]"But no one’s ever been afraid of me."[/say]
There’s no bitterness in her tone, but something else, something hungry. [say]"Do you think I could be?"[/say] she asks softly. [say]"Not like you,"[/say] she adds quickly, [say]"—not haunting or monstrous like you can be now—but... scary?"[/say] There’s a flash of a smile again, more shadow than sunlight this time. [say]"The kind of scary that makes someone stop before they try to touch you."[/say]
As for his not giving up if there’s nothing to lose, that pulls a sharp little laugh from her as her confidence returns in full force. [say]"Then maybe we both should let ourselves go,"[/say] she says, perhaps too brightly, [say]"more than we did today."[/say] Her fingers flick idly at a drying patch of blood on her sleeve. [say]"Assuming we really have nothing to lose."[/say] She shrugs. [say]"I’ve already died once. Felt claws go right into my ribs."[/say] Her tone dips into something darker as she says it, not haunted, but thoughtful. [say]"Feels like I’m owed the ability to just... shake it off."[/say] Then, a flash of her teeth, wry and not entirely joking. [say]"Would be nice to know how much I can actually handle before I have to drop a jaguar in someone’s lap again,"[/say] she adds with a crooked smile.
At his request to moan about it, Flora's whole body breaks into a melodramatic sigh. [say]"Astaaaaaa,"[/say] she groans, crumpling against him as if struck anew, [say]"it hurts so baaaad. I might need to be carried back. Probably forever."[/say]
But when he leans in and nuzzles her forehead, all theatricality melts into something soft and genuine. She hums warmly against him, leaning in for a moment longer before wrinkling her nose at his final comment. [say]"A muzzle? Gods,"[/say] she mutters, amused and appalled all at once. [say]"Does it even work, or do you just rip it off the moment the mood shifts?"[/say] Her eyes flick sideways toward him, full of challenge and curiosity as they stroll beneath the rustling canopy of Leafchange gold.
RE: a conversation about identity - Astaroth - 07-30-2025
Humming a considering sound, the butcher’s head inclines toward her with that same sharp grin. “[say]I have never once doubted how deadly you are, darling.[/say]” And it’s the pure honesty that drips from his lips that he offers it out to her, wrapped in sweet honey stickiness that he continues. “[say]Perhaps you should give them a reason to be?[/say]” After all, it wasn’t like he was feared his entire life. It wasn’t until he acquired the moniker and the portions of his Ancient magic and shifts that had granted him the fear and stories written about him.
She continues, though, and the butcher hears her out with a contemplative sort of gleam, one that meshes well with the mischief blossoming under his skin. “[say]In that case, yes, I believe you very well could be. A different kind of fear than the kind you already harbor by simply being Torchline’s Queen.[/say]” He muses a touch playfully, nudging her as he spots her beautiful shadowy grin, mirroring it with a sharp one of his own.
As for letting go more than they had today, the butcher chuckles deeper, arm squeezing hers gently. At least, he’d heard of her death thanks to Vox’s broadcast, but the mention of claws going through her has him perking up immediately, the extra boon of possessiveness that blossoms from this time of the season from his Feirw shift not particularly helping the matter much. So it’s with a quick, calculating glance over her to ensure that she is truly alright that the butcher nods and his smile brightens, even if it twists closer to a smirk, his voice dropping a touch deeper. “[say]If you are seeking to test your limits, darling, you need no longer look for willing participants.[/say]” It ends in a trill, as if he’s more than happy to push her to those limits so long as she’s invested in finding out. He imagines Danta wouldn’t mind helping out either.
But for now, it’s just the two of them, and his low laugh is saccharinely sweet to hear her groan and crumple. “[say]Flooorrrrrra,[/say]” his accent rolls the r of her name in a beautiful musical shift as he holds her closer, leaning in to nuzzle her. “[say]Remind me to craft you the most opulent seat to ride around on my shoulders for how terribly I have harmed you.[/say]” The easy banter rolls from his silver tongue, content to press against her if it weren’t for the promise of a drink and unfortunately not biting anyone in the process.
“[say]It does work, unfortunately.[/say]” The butcher sighs dramatically, his leg swinging out for the next step they take as he scoffs and rolls his eyes a little. “[say]We have had much time to test what works best for the straps and to make it as comfortable as possible to sleep in.[/say]” Glancing back over and down toward her, his smile is still sharp but a fraction softer. “[say]Danta has even had one made for my security uniform.[/say]” He bounces his brows, tail waving behind him as it brushes against her leg again.
RE: a conversation about identity - Flora - 07-30-2025
Flora doesn’t answer right away—doesn’t fill the space with her usual flurry of quips or dramatic retorts. Instead, she lets Asta’s words linger, weighing them like something precious in her palm. Because if there’s anyone qualified to speak on the matter of fear—of being seen, truly seen, as dangerous—it’s the Gentleman Butcher himself. [say]"So what,"[/say] she says at last, slow and musing, [say]"you think I should start demonstrating it more? Let people see what happens when I stop being charming and start being lethal?"[/say] Her eyes flick up to him, sharp and curious, a little dangerous in their own right. She certainly could do that, she supposed.
The laugh that follows is brighter, though no less thoughtful. [say]"I mean, banishing someone from my region is always a strong start,"[/say] she concedes, [say]"but I wouldn’t mind people thinking twice about fucking with me for other reasons too. Much as I don't always mind being underestimated—"[/say] She was the Doubletake for a reason, [say]"it does get a bit old."[/say]
As he agrees to help her push her limits, Flora flashes him a grin that’s all teeth, no fangs needed. [say]"It’s a date,"[/say] she purrs, emboldened by the thrill still buzzing in her bones. [say]"I’d love Danta to join—"[/say] her eyes glitter with mischief, [say]"assuming it doesn’t make you absolutely unbearable. You know. Season and all."[/say]
There’s no hesitation in her next smile, no coyness at all as her gaze flicks downward with a wicked glint. [say]"Nahhh,"[/say] she says sweetly, [say]"you already have a few seats I’m rather fond of riding on—"[/say] her brow arches meaningfully, [say]"no additional construction needed."[/say] The laugh that follows is full-bodied and unrepentant, her expression bright with the thrill of the tease. Not that another dalliance with the butcher was impossible, but certainly Danta's presence was a bare minimum for her words to be anything other than harmless flirtations.
As he laments the effectiveness of the muzzle, she wrinkles her nose and sighs with exaggerated sympathy, hating the idea of him being locked up, but also not having to deal with the consequences of when he wasn't. [say]"Suppose that’s good for you then,"[/say] she says, [say]"and I bet it probably just makes you look more menacing on security duty. Like a very stylish demon freshly escaped from his gilded cage."[/say] The brush of his tail against her leg sends a soft shiver up her spine, and she tilts her face up toward him, that smile still lingering like sugar on her lips. [say]"But you can make just about anything look good."[/say]
RE: a conversation about identity - Astaroth - 07-30-2025
“[say]Yes.[/say]” Asta says with zero hesitation, his grin widening a touch as he considers what kind of person Flora might become if she didn’t give someone a chance to think about things before doing them. “[say]Perhaps you and I should go on a hunt and you can test it out.[/say]” It comes out surprisingly easily, not dancing around the fact that he does choose cannibalism as a rare and far between treat. “[say]I would happily devour anyone who harmed you.[/say]” And while to anyone around it might seem poetic, the butcher quite literally means it.
At her laugh, though, he nods his head in understanding - reigning in the version of himself that harbors the bloodlust — and wondering momentarily how long it’s been since he’d indulged himself. Not long, but perhaps the aggression and his huge increase in becoming territorial might have something to say about it that he doesn’t quite understand. “[say]Ah, my Doubletake, it can absolutely be an advantage as well. Word does travel fast and to which it grows a bit old as well if you are only feared.[/say]” He sighs dramatically, as if having experienced it when he was underestimated as a gentleman, only to be called the Butcher of Whitebrim not that long after. It had been a swap, but one that had been admittedly refreshing when he’d gotten here without all of his powers and strength. Where he was underestimated by those that didn’t know any better.
And they’d poked the wolf, and the wolf bit back.
Her grin is met with one of his own, his fingers wiggling against her arm as he adds his little flare of gesture. “[say]It is the rage room, so I cannot do too much damage if it is. And besides, it is about testing our limits, is it not?[/say]” Bouncing a brow toward her as she delves into her favorite seats, the low rumble of a laugh becomes warmer, playfully husky when he responds. “[say]You know, much to mine and Danta’s surprise, I have not required blood at all yet this season.[/say]” he isn’t sure if it will go away when the season changes, but for now it’s been quite a pleasant surprise.
As for the muzzle, he inclines his head this way and that, a piece of dark hair falling from where it’s tucked neatly behind his horns back into his face as he muses over it. “[say]Oh, it does indeed. It nearly seems as if I am on display, as if the muzzle does not bar people from dreaming.[/say]” He laughs softly, looking down toward her with an affectionate glint to his gaze, made warm by their banter.
RE: a conversation about identity - Flora - 07-31-2025
Flora beams up at him, her grin equal parts delight and intrigue. [say]"Gods, I can’t remember the last time I actually went hunting,"[/say] she admits, the thought tickling some reckless part of her. [say]"If ever at all."[/say] There’s a flush of excitement beneath her skin, a ripple of curiosity she doesn’t bother hiding as she bites her lower lip, lashes fluttering playfully up at him. [say]"Is it terrible that I sort of want to see you do it?"[/say] she murmurs, voice dropping into something silkier, darker. The image shouldn’t be appealing, not of such casual brutality, and yet.
As he muses about reputation and how quickly word travels, she hums thoughtfully, her expression shifting into something more contemplative. At the mention of the rage room, Flora chuckles and bumps her hip against his. [say]"Exactly. And if it's all only temporary..."[/say] Her smile returns, sly and sharper than before
But when he casually mentions that he hasn’t needed blood yet this season, her brows lift, interest piqued. [say]"Really?"[/say] she asks, visibly surprised. [say]"Has that made things more or less fun for you and Danta?"[/say]
RE: a conversation about identity - Astaroth - 08-02-2025
“[say]If ever?[/say]” The butcher very nearly whispers, casting a truly surprised look over at her as she bites her lower lip, fluttering her lashes at him. The smile that crosses his face next is a touch wider, more thrilled for the prospect of it with an audience, especially given that it’d be Flora’s first. “[say]It tends to be a relatively… mm, reverent affair for me.[/say]” Comes the easy admission, the squeeze of her arm as he tilts his horned head toward her with that same smile sticking to his face. “[say]And it has been a little while since I have sated it.[/say]” The bloodlust, that is, and as the butcher considers a little bit further, he looks over at her with a hint of mischief. “[say]If we take a left at the junction up ahead it can delve us further into the woods if you would like an immediate observation. It would put a pause on drinks, unfortunately.[/say]” But with the edge of violence still blooming in his skin, he’s more than happy to take the detour if she wants to.
When it comes to reputation and the rage room, however, the butcher nods. It was all temporary, and while he isn’t exactly in the mindset of devouring anyone within it, he’s happy to linger with the thoughts of delving into the more violent affairs of just how far he could push himself. Even if it meant succumbing only temporarily.
Her surprise is met with that same husky, low hum of a laugh as he shrugs a shoulder, bumping against her briefly with the movement as his tail returns to brushing against her legs with each step. “[say]I would say it is about the same for me. For Danta, however, I believe it is more fun.[/say]” But he hasn’t asked, and Danta hasn’t been able to say too much about it with the exhaustion the butcher puts him through again and again. So to that, the smile he slants her way is playfully apologetic, the equivalent of a sarcastic oops.
RE: a conversation about identity - Flora - 08-03-2025
Flora grins, shaking her head with the kind of fond exasperation reserved for childhood stories too bizarre to make up. [say]"As a kid?"[/say] she says, [say]"I spent most of my time hiding from Ronin tearing up the Greatwood any time he remembered Enzo and I existed."[/say] There’s no bitterness in it, just wry amusement after so many years in between. [say]"Remi didn’t really stick around either, and while our nonna—Vai—could have taken us hunting, I don’t think even she thought it was worth the risk of dragon fire."[/say] She chuckles softly at the memory, eyes glinting with mischief and the sort of clarity only distance can bring. [say]"So no. Never really had the chance."[/say]
The idea that Asta’s hunts are reverent doesn’t surprise her at all. There’s a ritualistic precision to the way he moves, the way he handles pain, violence, affection. Everything he does has purpose. So when he suggests they could take a left right now—that he could show her what it really looks like—Flora brightens immediately, eyes gleaming. [say]"Left it is,"[/say] she agrees without a moment’s hesitation, her excitement barely contained as she turns her steps in that direction, curls bouncing with each stride.
As they walk, she snickers softly, gaze sliding up to him as her cheek rounds with her grin. [say]"You and Danta have something pretty special,"[/say] she says, nudging him gently with her shoulder. [say]"Not that I think you don’t know that already, but.."[/say] Well, sometimes it was nice to hear it anyway.
RE: a conversation about identity - Astaroth - 08-03-2025
As she begins to explain, the butcher finds himself not waiting to see the potential bitterness that could come from Flora’s words before his expression shifts to take it on for her. He doesn’t know the intricacies, but it’s clear it doesn’t bother Flora all that much these days, even though it bothers Asta that she’d had to be kept close for her safety.
He takes a slow deep breath, grounding himself as he nods his understanding. “[say]If it helps, I did not know my mother nor my father. I was taught to hunt by an elder.[/say]” Taken in by the head matriarch as he was, he’d learned everything he’d known from the woman that ruled with what seemed like strict rules (when she wasn’t losing her mind and contradicting herself). And at that point, Asta had been the youngest to learn.
Regardless, she seems pleased with the idea of hunting with him, and so the butcher pats her hand in quiet murderous delight, the agreement almost as immediate as is his change in directory once they reach the junction. Turning left, the two of them are greeted with thicker trees, the paths growing less well worn from foot traffic. “[say]Yes, I am quite lucky and fortunate.[/say]” He agrees, his tone a touch softer as he thinks about it. But he doesn’t dwell on it long as he tilts his head toward her with a twitch of a grin. “[say]It still surprises me, if I am honest.[/say]”
They drift further in, and the butcher remains loose and on edge as he listens to the surrounding woods. Since greets them, as does some tired bird calls and the quiet croaks of a frog. But when a twig snaps, the butcher perks up, steps hesitating as he pinpoints the direction of the crack despite the echo. “[say]You are welcome to join me, darling. If my hearing is to be believed, we have a lone wolf ahead.[/say]” He whispers, loosening the hold on her arm as he reaches to snag a pair of daggers from his ankles. Their blades glint in the lowlight of the trees as he combines them into one hand so he might be able to further loosen the already loose shirt he wears.
Growing silent and pinpointing the sound once more, he holds up his hand toward Flora in a 3… 2… 1. When the count down is finished, the butcher moves. Each step prepped and ready, already reaching (and slicing) for the bloodbane to incapacitate the wolf before they break into line of sight.