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A slight.. mishap. That's all it was. The b*****d and his spikes was a force he had not expected. It was damn near impossible to hurt him. But he would make him pay, oh yes. He would find his daughter and kill her. He would savor the experience as he drained her life from her as slowly and painfully as he could. He would find any loved ones he dared have and he would show them the same courtesy. That sonuvabitch would regret the day he stuck his nose where it did not belong.

His wounds were already starting to heal. Now that he had the taste of killing in this land, he wasn't going to back down. He wanted more. Too long had he been in Hell. Too long had he been confined, kept away from these barbaric practices. Barbaric, yes, but nothing had ever come close to being as enjoyable as killing something that yearned so hungrily for life. The more they wanted to live, the more he wanted to strip it from them.

That damned spiked b*****d would pay. He never forgot the faces of those that crossed him and got away with it. It was just a matter of time before they'd die by his paws too.

"Something wicked this way comes," he mocked as he caught a strange scent in the air. "Another of my kind, eh?" Madness danced in his eyes. This would be interesting. He found himself wondering if it would be one of the 'decent' Skinwalkers or one of the many that seemed to have gone soft after being here for a short time. Of course, part of him wanted to blame that old fool two-legger for choosing bad candidates for the curse. It was a disgrace to the purebloods who have to pick up the slack for their failures.

The large Skinwalker turned and started walking in the opposite direction. If he was to meet another of his kind, he would prefer to do it head on. As sure as he had caught the scent, he was sure the other had his. That in itself warranted a little respect from him. If it had been one of those cowards, surely they would have turned tail and run? A smile danced across his face at the pun but he continued walking.

His eyes glowed an eerie green as he continued scanning the land for the other. It was that glow that usually mesmerized his victims for that briefest moment and that was all he usually needed to make his move. His body was covered in scars, each one telling a story of an experience he once had. Be it with mares, animals, or creatures in hell, not a day went by that he did not prove his right to live. He dared any to oppose him. Any to tell him he's weak. Those that had.. well.. he was sure it was their last regret as he had ripped them to shreds with his paws. He didn't really think to ask them as he was killing them. Perhaps he should make a note to do that in the future.

Many made the mistake of thinking his madness was a weakness. He begged to differ. Begged. What a strange phrase. No, he had never begged for anything in his life but that didn't change the fact that he did not see his state of mind as a weakness. Perhaps it was a requirement to be able to do what he does. All the sane Skinwalkers certainly are weak, aren't they? To be able to cross that brink and strip another of their life? To take it further and torture them, tearing them to pieces, crushing their bones and eating them? How does one not go mad?

The ones that go mad at those that enjoy it, perhaps a little too much. That was what made them more terrifying than most. He liked to bring fear in those around him. He liked to keep them on edge so they don't know what to expect from them and he loved killing them. But alas, he should put such thoughts out of his head and concentrate on the creature that was nearing. Perhaps he would have to kill him or her. Perhaps he would let the other live. It really depends on if he or she was worth letting live.

The other one was close. The scent was growing stronger with every step, or at least it seemed. Perhaps it was simply his impatience and curiosity. It wasn't long before he saw her. He was mildly disappointed at first because his opinion of the female race wasn't a high one. Most were weak, most were pathetic. A part of him wondered if this one was indeed brave or simply in heat. The latter thought amused him.

The creatures in this land so did love to breed. He didn't mind it one bit. More food for him. More toys to play with. Foals were generally too simple for him to attack though he had no qualms with doing so. However, he did usually only attack young ones to torment the parents. Oh, they did hate watching their babies die. By the time he turned on them, they did not mind death. They embraced it. It was as if killing their babies stripped them of any reason to live. It was rather enjoyable.

He never gave much thought to reproducing himself. It wasn't that he was totally against it. All he would require was a worthy female. It would be an interesting game to play. Raising them though, that was another story. No, he would do as his parents had done to him. Left him alone from birth. Never knowing love from a parent. Only the strong survive. Oh yes, only the strong survive. Sure, his brother and sister died, but they were not strong.

It had been trying at times but when you're starving, there's no stopping you, even if you're a foal. He had learned to kill the hard way. He had learned to survive the hard way. He had been strong. It wasn't until adulthood that he had seen his parents for both the first.. and last time. They had beat the living s**t out of him but they had let him live. It was their way of telling him that he made it. What better way to know that you're alive than to come close to death?

He would do the same to any foal of his. If they died, they were weak. Unworthy to live. If they made it to adulthood, he would show them respect in the same manner as his parents had shown him and then he would leave them to their life. That was the way of his parents and that was his way. It certainly worked out for him. His brother and sister? Not so much. A chuckle came forth as he remembered his sister crying every night as her body slowly wasted away from hunger.

Only the strong survive. Those were indeed good words to live by. He stopped some paces away from the other Skinwalker and looked her over, preferring not to say anything for now.

"If I were a sheep," he started slowly as he idly cut at the grass of the earth with his large claws, "surely I'd be the black one. Or perhaps I would simply be a wolf in sheep's hide, infiltrating their home and slaying them all when they felt the most safe? Of course, I'd prefer a more obvious form of attack though the idea of springing up on them from behind does have a certain appeal. Certainly that would be more shocking for them."

His eyes lowered into mere slits, which made the glow that came from them even more noticeable. "I am a wolf, in more ways than one," he grinned toothily, displaying his fangs. "If we are going to play the communication game, I suppose it is my turn. Tell me, have you earned the pelt you carry on your back?" That was the only thing he was really interested in and her answer would weigh heavily on his future actions.

If he had to guess, he'd go with coyote for this one. Not that it was any less worth than the wolves and mountain lions. The coyote was actually the most common of the Skinwalkers and if half of them did what they were designed to do, these lands would already be in shambles. Unfortunately that was not the case. Though he hated all creatures, even those of his own kind, he did not relish killing an equal. Their kind was far too rare. He might be mad, but he was no fool.

"Perhaps that was a sheep," he started, his mouth turning up into a smile, "just prettier than usual" He couldn't help but slowly circle the mare. He liked that she did not flinch, did not draw away from his movements, from his stare. No, if he attacked, this one would fight back. She was not afraid and he liked that. "I have to admit, I have an affinity for wolves, as that's what I change into, but I can assure you, I am no sheep." He could not tell if she was pretty or not. When it came to such things, he had absolutely no taste or preference. What he found appealing was what might lay under the flesh. Deep in the corners of the mind and soul.

"I run to, never away," he calmly replied, "As for what you smell, you should come and see. It's not far from here." And with that, he turned and started walking away. He knew that it left his back up to attack, but he felt that even if she were tempted, she'd pass up on it. She seemed curious so far and the madness in him was taking over. He wanted to show someone what he had done. He wanted to share his recent work. The mare was still in bits across that clearing and it looked as if the land had been stained red. There was so much blood. If anyone could appreciate it, surely she would. She had that air of madness about her.

"It is good that you've earned your pelt," he commented. It had a rather friendly air about it though that friendliness did not meet his eyes, nor did his body relax in any way. To the trained it, it was obviously fake. "Too many live with the honor of wearing it though have not earned it. I do not understand how so many can come to be cursed but not.. honor that right. I wish to strip them of that right.. or make them earn it."

As he neared the site that the ebony mare had been killed, he could barely contain the growl that wanted to spring forth. If he was mad then certainly being in this area heightened it. "I do not know her name. I did not care to know it," he commented, more to himself than to the mare. He loved looking at the carnage that was before him. It was hard to believe that all that had come from a single mare.

He took a moment to indulge himself in the surroundings. He knew that the rain would eventually come and wash away the blood and predators would come and strip the bones of what flesh remained on them. He wanted to enjoy this scene as it was for as long as he could. "The way I figure it," he stated calmly and emotionless, "They had their chance to earn it the moment they were cursed. I see no reason to give them another if they couldn't get it right the first time."

Such talent could not be taught. Well, perhaps that wasn't necessarily true. It could probably be taught but it shouldn't be. It should come natural. It should be instinctual. He considered most of the cursed Skinwalkers in this land to be failures. Hell, failure doesn't even apply to them because to fail, one has to have tried. They've made no such attempt. They were just worthless.

"The ability to transform is there, regardless of the pelt. Stripping them of the pelt would at least strip them of their honor, not that they have any to begin with. Our pelts are a symbol of what we are. It's a symbol of who we are. If they want to mark themselves as a Skinwalker, they should be a Skinwalker. They do not have the right to wear the pelts. It's an insult to our kind." It was one of the many things he wanted to rectify one day.