Gerdian

Gerdian smiled as he watched his prey. It was a cruel, savage sort of smile, the one you’d expect to see on the face of a bullying brute. Yet, the narrowed, sharp eyes betrayed an intellect far greater than something you’d expect to see on a common bully. He was surrounded by a definite air of command, something that seemed deeply ingrained in every part of him. It was most clearly visible in the proud, defiant way he held himself erect even in the middle of the raging blizzard. The cold, freezing wind that was sweeping through the valley and forcing Gerdian’s companions to cover behind him wasn’t even enough to make him cover his face.

Dressed in a wolf’s fur, he held his hands and face without any cover, seemingly oblivious to the temperatures that would’ve dropped a weaker man dead in an instant. His hands, clenched in fists, had a bright red color from the cold, many large bulging veins running over the muscles. They were not the delicate hands of a thief or a master craftsman – they were the well-worn, hardened hands of a warrior, of a killer who did all of his slaying with his bare hands. They were bulging muscles that had been exposed to the freezing temperatures of the Icy North for all of their existance and never needed to suffer from the weakening, softening warmth.

Dropping on all fours, Gerdian gave the lone traveler below him one, final evaluating glance, and then leaped. There was an almost inhuman grace in his movements, muscles and nerves moving in perfect coordination. For a heartbeat, he seemed almost frozen in the air, an illusion which broke as he landed in front of his prey. He sliced at the man’s throat as he did so, the claws in his hands drawing blood even through the traveler’s thick clothes, spelling a certain doom. Around them, Gerdian’s pack followed him and leapt through the air to surround the traveler, denying the man any remote chance of escape.

As the man fell, Gerdian gave each of his followers a challenging glance, all of them submitting and looking down from him. With the earned rights of the leader, he tore his claws into the traveler’s flesh, being the first one to sink his teeth into the man’s warm, fresh flesh.

It would’ve been an understatement to call him the leader of the pack. He was the pack, and none of them would survive without him.

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