Snippet #1701217

The signs were unavoidable now. Further and further away his human feet carried him, yet a conscious feeling never ceased to invade his thoughts, clouding the impulse to run, to disappear--the Wind Messenger, for certain, and its repeated calls of distress only served to heighten the fact that the air reeked of tension, that the snow was stained red from his kills. He hardly gave a start to the buzz of the radio. A mere sigh was his reaction, exasperated beyond petty escape matters; pronounced crow's feet lent his eyes a hardened gaze as they swept the area, and in little time the silhouettes of soldiers came creeping through the forest. They carried a wolven stench about them, and one other that could perhaps be likened to a common dog.

Callum turned away. Gave them, as much as he'd hate to say aloud, the cold shoulder. He wouldn't barge into another wolf's matters; he wouldn't take a stand with his kind, nor would he fulfill the standards of their death wish. He would turn, rushing down the mountainside, till the scent of civilization smacked him in the face. And it would be glorious.

But he was running low on ammunition. Gambit had bullets—lots of them, in fact. In an instant, he faced the other direction, decided that his rush down the mountainside would have to wait.

Too old for this shite.

He acted with haste. A risk this would be, but two grunts were not so imposing. Separating him from the enemy were a few feet and a ravine, the peak of which he crouched upon as he unpacked the stolen Battle Carbine. They were so close, so unaware. A haphazard plan reeled in his mind, ideally climaxing with him as the victor. Their steps thudded against the warring ground; they smelt of a small, breathless panic, yet he was still and frozen as winter, steadying the rifle, a manic glint in his eye. Some inane part of him couldn't be more ecstatic to partake in this bloodlust. Uniforms came running in sight. Meters away, fewer still. Crossing his path. Calculated distance. Firing the last four single shots, two to each head, two to shatter helmet glass, flesh, bone, opposition.

No time to anticipate results. Weapon tossed aside, he went tumbling down the incline, as a blur of manmade speed, fur for skin, fangs and claws at the ready, teeth shown and aiming for the throat.