Tudor stalked around the territory. None had been around the land in nearly a week, save himself and Remus. His brother was somewhere around, most likely hunting. Tudor panted in the fierce day's sun. The rays stung his skin, left unprotected by the thin brown coat. Late as it was in the season, the dog still found no relief from the harsh sun. The breeze was cool, giving him a sudden shiver every once in a while. His eyes scanned the land but with no scents or visions, the dog was alone. He let a small smile appear and began at a slow trot. But that wouldn't last long.

Within meer seconds the dog was up to a mind-boggling speed. He ran over the rubble, dodging the falling debris of the old city. The sky stretched out ahead of him, a calm whoosh of the bay near. He could smell the salt. A foamy, crisp scent he had come to love in the short time he had been there. His ears were back, pushed and held in place by the strong wind he ran into.

But as the dog neared the beach, a faint scent mixed itself in with the salt and sand and water. His nose twitched as he ran, filling his nostrils with the odd scent. Another scent came in though the two new scents seemed to share something. He came to a halt, slidding in the sand he had found himself in. His mouth gaped wide to help fill his lungs with the air he needed as his nose searched for the scents. He found them easier as he shifted to the right a few yards. It was another dog. Already raised, the fur on his back couldn't do much to show his thoughts. Tudor let out a huff and quietly padded toward the scent.

It was blood he had smelled. Closer to the source, the dog could identify the previous scent. The thick metallic scent was clearly blood now. Of course, seeing the red spots in the sand was helping too. He could see a brown form in the distance. There was a red spot on its side. He let out a deep howl to call it to stop. He could surely catch up but he figured a little warning wouldn't be such a bad thing.

His intruder was running away. He could see it standing still, in thought, for only a moment before darting off toward the border. It was fast, injured as it seemed to be. Tudor growled under his breath and kicked up the sand behind him as he flew off after the dog. His ears flew back in the biting wind, tail sprawled out behind him, paws working back and forth pumping him faster and faster. The sand slowed him down though not enough to make a noticeable difference in his speed.

Tudor was fast. His body was made for speed. Though, it was only so after he made it so. Remus was simply designed perfectly and given the ability to run quick but in order to keep up with his brother, Tudor pushed himself, pushed to be better, to be faster. After 5 years of the struggle between siblings to be faster, Tudor had done it. His body was thin and lean with no fat if he could help it. He was a car without wheels. He was a bullet with no use for a gun. And he would catch this new dog if it killed him, because he was fast, and he could do it. Failure was not a possibility.

He could feel the sand clump between his toes, the wetter sand sticking to his underbelly. But he could see the dog, or rather, a wolf, as he now judged it to be. His brown eyes were fixed clearly and unalterably on this wolf. He was closer and closer, chest heaving in deep pants and excitement of the chase. He was gaining on it quickly. There was no way it could reach the border before Tudor did. With the wolf within six feet, Tudor tucked down his head and pulled up beside the wolf.

In reality, he wasn’t quite sure why he was chasing this wolf. It had invaded his territory, sure, but was that any reason to chase it down and make it stop? Chase it off maybe, but not talk to it. But he was going to anyway. If Remus found out about this wolf and that it had left without Tudor attempting to get it in the pack, he would never hear the end of it.

“I’m only going to talk,” he panted, talking to the wolf intruder.

With a last spurt, Tudor darted in front of the wolf and stopped in it’s path, giving only a few inches to turn or jump. He braced himself for the impact.