Natural Selection - (Fenrir)

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NATURAL SELECTION

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KNOCKTURN ALLEY, 11:00PM, TAG: FENRIR,[/color][/center][/FONT]
The dreary pub, hidden down the tight backstreets of Knockturn Alley was home to all manner of unsavoury characters. It was the perfect venue for illicit meetings and business. Rodolphus Lestrange was a frequent punter. Little had changed here since he had once snuck in as an underage wizard (though that would have been the least of the bars worries if the aurors had come a calling). The building sat on a strange lopsided slope, its décor seemingly untouched for decades, walls that were probably once white now stained beyond recognition.

Rodolphus could be found as he often was, tucked in one of the many dark corners. Often he could be found consorting in hushed tones with other death eaters or those known to be involved in dodgy dealings or boldly befriending those that seemed like they may be of some use. But not tonight. Tonight he sat alone seemingly quite comfy with only the large glass of dark liquid for company. He had obviously been there for some time, waistcoat unbuttoned, shirt rolled to the elbows, white fingers tracing the rim of the glass of firewhiskey absently. He had given up attempting to hide himself when he came here. No-one in this pub was foolish enough to contact the aurors unless they wanted their head neatly removed from their body for being a snitch. Enough time had passed that he barely resembled the man in the many of the wanted posters, whose maddened eyes glared out from a mass of tangled hair and beard. He now sat clean shaven, hair neatly cropped and ruffled as he ran his fingers through it, his eyes returned to their original quick intelligence as he surveyed the pub and it’s inhabitants.

It always amazed him just how much information one could gain by sitting quietly and listening. The fools soon forgot your presence and spoke as if none other could hear them. His eyes focused on two men by the bar, a loud spat growing into a brawl though his ears stayed tuned to the table to his right. What he had gathered was a ministry worker sat with another, the two were engaged in the small talk that proceeded a sale. The woman from the ministry was stammering nervously about attacks that had yet to grace the Daily Prophet, attacks on both muggles and wizards that no doubt had links to the Dark Lord and his followers. Some of the attacks were his own, some he recognised as the work of his cohorts, most of them having a very individual style that lingered like a calling mark. Two particularly savage attacks could only possibly be the works of Fenrir Greyback and his little coven or whatever they called themselves.

Most of the wizarding world including the Death Eaters were understandably concerned at the growing numbers Greyback seemed to be ‘recruiting’. There was nothing to be done for the moment, he and his numbers were a necessary evil, the brute animals useful for their cause. Naturally they’d be dealt with when the war was done. The vast majority of the death eaters had taken to avoiding the werewolf at all possible costs, Rodolphus on the other hand had gladly embraced the creature and made sure to do everything within his power to keep the werewolf on as friendly a terms as they could manage. He would no doubt be of extreme use in the future and as his father had always said, better the enemy you knew.

He couldn’t deny he almost liked Fenrir, the brutal savagery in which he took what he wanted was almost refreshing in the light of the many pathetic followers who shuddered in fear at the thought of actually having to dirty their own hands. The thought of the imbeciles they were so often forced to make the most out of quickly led to a long sip of his drink, the whiskey offering a pleasant burn as it went down. The majority of their most recent recruits were rather depressing indeed, few were truly loyal, half-bloods joined up through fear or a mere excuse for their sadistic pleasures, there were so few that truly wished to uphold the cause. Still they would do as canon fodder if nothing else. A shame really that Greyback was a diseased mongrel, he would have made a good death eater.

Dark green eyes flicked from the brawl at the bar to the door. Speak of the devil. Raising a hand Rodolphus brought attention to his presence hidden in the corner with a slight wave.
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[fenrir]

The most recent full moon had taken its toll on Fenrir. His stiff muscles ached with overexertion and his lips narrowed into a scowl, bearing his yellowish fangs. A gash on his upper bicep was rubbed raw by the fabric of his jacket; none of his clothes ever fit. His body was always changing. The shirt beneath appeared ready to burst, the material stretched taut across his broad chest. The tightness and the pain were an ill mix. His tongue burned dry nearly hanging out from his mouth.

When blood could not quite qualm his thirst, alcohol was always the answer. Fenrir lurked within the shadows of the cobbled road wishing to avoid contact least he should lose his temper or patience; he had recently cleaned up and was not in the mood to do so again. Even monsters required breaks. The stench of Knockturn Alley was enough to get his blood pumping and he quickly scrambled into the front entrance of the nearest pub. The lighting was poor, allowing only the ugly blue of his eyes to radiate out into the dimness. A brawl had erupted and Fenrir felt his mouth twitch upward; it was pathetic. Two drunken idiots clambered one another with clenched fists, blood spurted from both sets of nostrils like water from a fountain. The scent made Fenrir itch.

His fingers longed to sink razor-sharp nails into their unsuspecting flesh, prying apart limb from limb to drink in their delicious juices. But the throbbing within his head swayed him against this decision; not now. Something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Craning his neck Fenrir spotted fellow death eater Rodolphus Lestrange waving for him. A spark of curiosity ignited in his brain. Ignoring the wizards cries of warring rage, Fenrir stepped around them and sauntered toward the booth stuffed in the corner. The pub was warm and Fenrir took off his tattered jacket, throwing it onto his seat. He shot a crooked smile at Rodolphus. The clean shaved man contrasted oddly against the hairy brute; Fenrir snorted to himself wondering the point of sanitation. In his case it was pointless; his mounting attacks were a bloody and physically asserting affair that continued night after night. He’d only waste water.

“Lestrange,” Fenrir growled in greeting, irritably turning to wave over a firewhiskey. A timid waiter approached offering a glass of the drink; he set it on the table before scurrying off to the safety of the bar where he immediately busied himself with a new order. Without bothering to wait for an invitation Fenrir sat, taking a moment to settle his large frame into place. He snarled. Once comfortable he lifted the firewhiskey to his lips, peeling his eyes off from the drink and resting them on Rodolphus. It had been a few weeks since he had last seen the death eater and word of his attacks had reached Fenrir; he was vaguely impressed. He appreciated the cruelty the man had set forth; most of the others that had infiltrated their ranks didn’t have the balls to squish an ant beneath their boots. It was a severe letdown to Fenrir to consider himself one amongst them. Not that it mattered too much; he was there only for his own purposes and aims which included creating a werewolf army. His pack was growing stronger with the fleeting nights.

Leaning back in his seat, Fenrir watched the man waiting for him to speak. He stretched his legs beneath the table in attempt to find a moment of soothing relief from their dull aching; it was nice to have time off for once despite the smoke-tinged air of the pub. The alcohol burned his throat with a satisfying pleasure; the gore of the previous night melted as the liquid slid down his esophagus. Absentmindedly Fenrir dragged the tips of his nails across the wooden surface of the table engraving his mark upon it.

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“Greyback.” He greeted with his usual darkly silken tones, speaking as if his dearest friend had just sat down infront of him, though Fenrir knew him well enough by now to know he used the same tone with his enemies. He watched the werewolf settle himself down, it was rare Rodolphus was physically over shadowed by another, he wasn’t all muscle and borne, certainly not after Azkaban but the Lestrange’s were gifted with the tall genes and he was used to towering over most others. He always conveniently forgot between their meetings that in that point alone Fenrir had the upper hand. Lounging back in his chair he offered the werewolf a mischievous smirk, examining the other man quickly. Every time their paths crossed Greyback seemed to look more and more like the monster beneath. The two of them sat as almost polar opposites, Rodolphus’ mother had taught him little, perhaps the only lesson to stick was that one should always look a gentleman no matter the situation, even if it was a slightly dishevelled gentleman.

The two of them had been much younger men when they first met. Rodolphus still gangly in his body. The dark lord had often entrusted him with recruiting the difficult cases. People were something Rodolphus understood well, everyone had their price, everyone had their breaking point. He had expected recruiting Greyback to the cause would be a far more difficult mission then it had been. He’d expected the usual spiel of promises would very quickly be replaced with threats and curses. Yet with a bottle of whiskey the deed was done, the simplicity of it all had ensured he remained ill at ease with the wolf and his motives.

“It seems you’re the Prophets new golden boy, your making the rest of us look lazy.” He commented drolly. It seemed very few days passed where the whisperings of what could only be described as animalistic attacks did not reach his ears. Rodolphus made a mental note to mention the next time he bumped into his fellow death eaters at the dinner table of the Malfoy mansion that the moment a werewolf and his spawn provoked more fear then the combined strength of the death eaters was the day they all needed to get their arses back to work. At least the correlation had been made between the wolf attacks and the death eaters. They had been gone to long. So many of them still choosing to hide themselves within the filth. He questioned the loyalty of anyone able to stomach it. The world had forgotten what they were capable of. It was about time they were reminded.

With a languid turn his eyes returned to the brawling pair now on the floor, their attempts at punches now little more then exhausted girlish slaps before they both collapsed exhausted, both looking as beaten as the other. Pathetic. Years ago he would have rushed in to show them how it was done. Perhaps it was age that now made him look upon the scene with boredom, perhaps another little piece of him ripped away by Azkaban. Much of his old amusements had died in that hollow place. His gaze returned to Fenrir lingering on the gash on the wolfs arm, exposed by the removal of the ill-fitting coat. “Difficult meal?” A vague amusement clung to the cold tones.

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[fenrir]

A devilish snort broke out from Fenrir; the werewolf merely grinned toothily tightening his grasp about the mug of firewhiskey. His shoulders hunched inward swallowing the lower portion of neck. Licking at the cracks of his lips Fenrir rasped, “The rest of you haven’t got the guts to do anything more than threaten.” The taste of blood, a metallic salt, lingered on the tip of his tongue and Fenrir relished in the sensation. “They’re too afraid of dirtying their hands.” He chuckled darkly, flicking the dirt out from underneath his nails to the floor. It was easy to fill Fenrir’s mind with words of praise; he did not hear them as often as he would like. The room itself felt stuffy and Fenrir shifted in his seat; his skin was flush with heat. The back of his throat prickled with thirst and he lifted the mug to his lips, drinking greedily and wetted the scorched tissue. It was amusing, none the least, to recollect the reluctance of death amongst the Dark Lord’s ranks. So many turned their noses up at bestiality yet verbally cut wounds into the flesh of their victims; seeking to drain out their inner spirit rather than extinguish the heartbeat. Fenrir did not understand the difference. He felt it was easier to end life physically; it took less time and conserved energy for more attacks.

The corners of Fenrir’s mouth curved upward, lifting the rims exposing stained incisors. Flecks of faded blood, the color of a dying rose, blemished various teeth. He inclined his head. “The mudblood put up a good sport of hide and seek, but I tire of games easily.” He gave a wheezy, bark-like laugh. “I like when they scream. Especially the woman; the flesh is nice and soft.” Leaning back, Fenrir arched an eyebrow and looked out at the two wizards that slowly wound down from their passionate brawl; the punches faded and soon diminished. Fenrir was disappointed; though too weighed down by fatigue the skirmish would have made an interesting event to watch. It would have provided a sort of background music. He averted his eyes letting out a grunt of disdain, before focusing back on Rodolphus. It had been years since they first met. Fenrir couldn’t remember having ever delighted in a bottle of whiskey more. The promise of werewolf recruits from potential victims had driven him wild, igniting his taste buds. Fenrir noticed how the man had slimmed down vaguely, he was tall as ever yet not so wide; the time in Azkaban had chiseled away at his health.

He himself had had many close encounters with the wizarding imprisonment; it came with the territory. Building a mass army of werewolves and seeking out young children to raise for his cause was not without obvious risk. But he had managed, somehow, to always elude the hands of the law. It was no easy task. Bloody threats towards ministry officials would only temporary throw them off of his heels, it wouldn’t be until he sunk his fangs into the necks of their young would they cover their trail and stray from him. He still would not relent and would continue his assaults.

A thought struck at his mind like a pickaxe. A silent growl rippled up from the base of throat and Fenrir inquired harshly, “I take it you are still bound to that madwoman? Bellatrix Lestrange?” It was no secret of Fenrir’s rocky relationship with the female death eater; they trusted one another little. Her crazed cackle and quick movements aggravated him; they stood for a common goal but tolerated one another little. The one thing Fenrir would claim as the only decent trait the woman possessed, though in no means did he actually admire her for it, was her violent demeanor. She was one of the few amongst the death eaters who were not afraid to break bones for answers, she did not hesitate to slit throats for warnings, or cringe at the sight of crimson. Regardless she drove Fenrir up the wall and he normally attempted to stray from her path and avoid an argument or feel her piercingly cold glare. He cared little if Rodolphus took offense to his words concerning his wife yet had a nagging suspicion that the man could not care less. He sat up slightly straighter in his seat, staring down upon the death eater who had recruited him long ago. He once more took a deep swig from his firewhiskey, nearly draining the mug, and flicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The burning lit up his throat like a wildfire, inflaming the delicate flesh and warming his body.

Fenrir turned briefly to glower down upon a bartender wanting his glass to be refilled before the conversation continued. A wiry man scuttled up, pouring the fiery drink and smirked at the two men. A thin, white scar marred the wrinkled skin of the employee and Fenrir felt remorse at the fact it was not he who had inflicted the wound.

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OOC: I'm so sorry for the delay, I've only had time to creep on the site. I've been brain dead from my graduation party and other crazy things.

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“Some, not all Greyback.” He reminded coolly. “The rest will soon learn if they wish to survive.” He couldn't deny there were those in the ranks who seemed to fear even raising their wands to a damn house-elf, they would at least serve as canon fodder unless they proved of greater use. There were many that filled that category, more then he would care. But not all. There still remained those within the inner circle that would do whatever was necessary to achieve their cause, those that took pride and honour in their work. The Lestrange's were at the very forefront of that list. They who gladly did whatever was necessary and seemed to take the most pride and enjoyment from their work and night time visits with the muggles and mudbloods. His wife of course was well renowned for her maniacal barbarism and his brother had gained quite the reputation for his ruthlessness. Many had foolishly come to believe that out of the three the eldest could be the most trusted. Foolishly thought him more reserved, more restrained, more 'sane' then his dear wife or brother thanks to his gift of gab and painted smile. He'd become very adapt at keeping that welcoming smile and reeling the usual spiel of bollocks while patiently imagining just how much better those around him would look stained in their own blood. People so easily believed the face they were presented with, few truly paused to look at what lingered beneath the surface.

The honeyed smirk quickly vanished with Fenrir's tales of his newest sports replaced with a far more honest and darker smile, leaning forward with a keen interest. “The women? Women are predictable. Now the men, there's always a struggle, always pride to overcome. Though they all scream like little lost girls in the end.” He lent back in his chair once more with a cold laugh. Many of his fellow death eaters had found a particular favourite in the cruciatus curse, it was useful he wouldn't deny, a simple though crass pleasure. But a man would say anything under such torture, could remain defiant when faced with only the physical and he soon bored of the squirming. Rodolphus had always preferred the imperius curse. Had always preferred to play with a little more imagination, preferring to break his enemies inside and out.

A spark of amusement crossed the Death Eater’s face at the mention of his darling wife. She had a knack for flustering and irritating people, it seemed Greyback was no exception. Their mutual dislike was well known and a source of much amusement to him. Strange really there was much the two had in common. It was not the first nor would it be the last time he would hear her referred to as the ‘madwoman’. He’d never rushed to her defence on that one. Certainly there were some things he’d refuse to hear said about his wife more to save his own honour then anything else but questions on her sanity was not one of them. His own father had stood hurriedly mumbling at the top of the aisle to him at the very wedding that he was making the worst mistake of his life, that women like Bellatrix were the type you took home to bed and kicked out when the crazy got to much handle, not the type of woman one settled down with. “Bound?” He tested the word, refusing to acknowledge there was doubtless more truth in the one word then the werewolf possibly realised. “To dear Bella? She remains bound to me.” He promptly established with a statement of ownership.

“Leave the bottle.” He barely turned to face the bartender, gesturing to the table with a lazy hand. Rodolphus had ever been a creature of excess, proudly living on the morals that if you could take something, you should. A good drink was a vice he'd enjoyed since sneaking into this pub at the tender age of thirteen. He took a long sip of the whiskey before turning his attention back to the matter at hand. “A madwoman...” He repeated with a slight amusement. No doubt his wife would relish in the thought of someone like Greyback thinking her insane, insane meant dangerous. He had never thought her truly insane, no more then he or his brother. Wild yes, perhaps more unbalanced since Azkaban but that was a story they all shared. “No, she's not insane. She has just always been...” He paused, searching for the right word, long white fingers drumming on the table absently. Fickle, temperamental, maddening? The list went on and on. “Fragile.” He finalised with a smile.

“And what of you? Is there the pitter patter of tiny wolf paws yet? A new favourite?” His dark tones hinted at all the innuendo of what he could only assume being a female favourite of Greyback would involve. No doubt those poor toys were all to easily broken, he pondered with a dark humour.


OOC: No worries at all hun

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[fenrir]

“Some not all Greyback. The rest will soon learn if they wish to survive.”

Fenrir slumped back in his seat, loosening his grasp about his mug. He let out rasped snort of doubt indicating his displeasure towards the majority of the death eaters. So many flinched at the mere sight of dirt beneath their nails; Fenrir himself indulged in getting as grizzly as any situation allowed. He would submerse himself in any form of violence on automatic impulse. But he knew the man’s words were laced with truth, even if he himself refused to see it. The Lestrange’s were in fact among the most loyal and every member of the family would willingly chase after any means necessary to prove it. They did not cower away from missions nor did they cringe at orders. Crimson suited them well and only a fool would deny it. Fenrir felt his lips curl upwards and his shoulders twitched vaguely in agreement. Unlike the others though, the werewolf did not believe in the Dark Lord’s cause but took advantage of the benefits his offerings reaped for Fenrir. Every day his army grew in size, slowly but steadily enough; nothing pleased him more than this fact.

“The women? Women are predictable. Now the men, there's always a struggle, always pride to overcome. Though they all scream like little lost girls in the end.”

Tilting back his thick skull Fenrir let out a bark of mirth.“Women have the most to offer,” he snarled perversely, feeling his pupils dilate in excitement. “But they all break in the end. Pride is for the weak of body.” The snap of broken bone, jutting out from crimson flesh like a grizzly pearl flashed within his mind. He could smell blood and hear his victim’s screams ringing in his ears; their soft flesh melting away beneath his touch. Fenrir peeled his lips back in a sadistic smile and leaned back into his seat pleased. Though most preferred spells as a form of torture, some Fenrir had partaken in himself, he normally took delight in old fashioned persuasion. Physical force, as Fenrir had discovered through the years, often took care of the job quite fast and could easily get him what he wanted. The only hitch? The mess. But the werewolf was a carnivorous brute who seemed to endlessly thirst for the blood of wizards. The mess was hardly a con in his eyes.

“Bound? To dear Bella? She remains bound to me.

Fenrir felt his smirk grow wider and he chuckled darkly gazing into the depths of his firewhiskey. Regardless of who was bound to who Fenrir found the entire concept of marriage to be far beyond his understanding. He could not grasp why someone would legally tie themselves to another. Why limit yourself to only one? He himself had many ‘mates’ within his pack, all of which offered something unique that only they could individually present. Different strengths and weaknesses interwove a strong pack. What especially eluded the outskirts of his logic was of all women why Rodolphus had selected Bellatrix. The woman had once been beautiful Azkaban had eroded her previously charming appearance. Did Rodolphus ever worry of his life being stolen in the dead of night by a knife to the throat?

“No she’s not insane, she’s just always been fragile.”

His tongue flicked against the roof of his mouth in disagreement. “Azkaban softened your mind, Fenrir said, taking a swig of his drink. He set the mug down harshly on the tabletop, the froth spilled out over the lip. “Fragile would not be my choice of word.” Bellatrix delighted in her insanity and no matter what her husband said Fenrir would always consider her mad. Though once again he had a point, doubtlessly her imprisonment had further enhanced her crazed senses. That Fenrir would agree to. His nails scratched absentmindedly at the table. The sounded grated against his nerves, it was a habit of his he found impossible to kick, and he quickly grabbed at his firewhiskey to drink down his sudden irritability. Calmed his eyes settled back to Rodolphus.

“ “And what of you? Is there the pitter patter of tiny wolf paws yet? A new favourite?”

At the comment Fenrir eased up, his muscles went limp beneath his too-tight clothing. The grin that stretched taut across his mouth deepened and he wetted his lips, speaking slowly. “My most recent mate has offered me something very special indeed,” he grated. “With each passing day my pack grows in number; soon we will no longer live in shadow.” His words were coated with a thin layering of poisoned threat, not towards Rodolphus but rather for the wizarding community as a whole. Too long had Fenrir’s breed been hunted down, spat upon, and forced from society. In order to survive they had to band together in secret, cloaked in the forest of a mysterious location. He, along with many of his members, sought out vengeance.

ooc: again I'm so sorry, I promise no more delays

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“I assure you old friend Azkaban has softened nothing.” Rodolphus lent back in his chair, a dark seriousness to his tone that had previously gone unused in the for Rodolphus almost jovial conversation. With a long sip he drained the near full glass of firewhiskey and refilled the two glasses infront of him from the left bottle. No, Azkaban had done anything but soften him, if anything it had taken any of the few rare smooth edges of his personality and sanded them to sharp brittle points like all the rest. When the Ministry fell he’d see all those who had thought to imprison him spent the rest of their years in that god forsaken place.

He didn’t miss the smirk that crossed his cohorts lips at the mention of his marriage. That smirk crossed far too many people’s lips on that subject. As it always did, it sent a flush of anger through his stomach. Though if Rodolphus was good at anything, it was saving face. His chosen mask for the evening untouched by any emotion bubbling away beneath the surface. Eventually it would snap in an all too public and violent display, it always did. He made a mental note to endeavour once more to put an end to those smirks. There were certainly times he envied the freedom Fenrir seemed to have. No he had not always been faithful to his wife. It was all apart of the game between them. Admittedly a part that required very careful treading for they were both jealous and possessive creatures by nature, games of the flesh could all too often lead to mounting bodies. While he would stoutly deny it, he remained painfully bound to his wife from his own doing more then anything else. Perhaps he would have been happier like one of these wild animals out in the wilderness with no ties and boundaries, though it seemed doubtful.

“Fragile would not be my choice of word.”

“If I want something tame…” Rodolphus began with a light explanation. He didn’t think Fenrir the type to not understand the reason he had chosen Bellatrix. The werewolf seemed the type to like a girl with a bit of fight. “I can always come here.” He gestured to the pub exuberantly, shooting the utterly dazzling smile he clearly used when seeking such women here, a smile that despite the wear of Azkaban still managed to make him look ten years younger, and boyishly sweet. A pleasant mask to something deeply broken beneath the surface.

Swirling the whiskey in his glass, he focused his gaze on the amber liquid. Something special… he moved as if to ask and promptly stopped himself, he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know anymore then that. There were some things even his mind did not need images of. “Well aren’t we lucky.” He commented dryly with a dark smirk, unable to stop the slight raise of his eyebrows that still asked the question. Curiosity was a sin he’d fallen foul of more times then he’d care to admit.

The thinly veiled threat was not lost on the death eater. The growing number of these mongrels was certainly something that would have been dealt with when this war was over. No matter, it was a problem he was sure would be solved easily enough when their use had run out. He might even miss these late night drinking sessions with Fenrir, one of the few who was comfortable to talk openly about pleasures others would consider sickening. “When the Ministry falls none of us will be forced to remain in the shadows any longer. The scum and the fools who would rule and repress us will be put in their rightful place. Things will be as they should be. I’ll personally ensure your kind will be rewarded for the role you’ve played.” He promised with an absolute sincerity. Yes they’d be rewarded, rewarded by being smoked out and burnt to the ground, with the goblins and all others that would question their masters. If there was anything his father had taught him it was to keep your enemies close and lie to them. No-one lied like a Lestrange.

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[fenrir]

“I assure you old friend Azkaban has softened nothing.”

Fenrir sharply exhaled out from his nose, turning his head from the death eater and settling his gaze upon the wall. Friend? Though he and Rodolphus fared well with one another it was by no means a functioning companionship rather a tolerable acquaintance. A trail of suspicion wafted in the werewolf’s mind concerning the man opposite of him. But there were few he could ever truly trust. Trust was perhaps humanity’s greatest flaw; it made you weak and vulnerable and was based entirely on mere sentiments. He would have none of it. With care Fenrir drank from his fiery glass, eyes locked upon Rodolphus. Something dark shaded the light in Rodolphus’s expression; emotion that Fenrir could not fathom. Had he brushed a nerve?

Perhaps it was the manner in which Fenrir had addressed the madwoman. But was it not a common view? He could almost feel the slight warmth of unsettled anger course through Rodolphus’s veins beneath the man’s thick skin. A tingle of mirth tickled Fenrir. He knew what Rodolphus felt surely could not be love, after all hadn’t the marriage been arranged? Disgust coiled within his gut. The entire concept of marriage eluded him. How could one so willingly sever their thread to freedom for a woman incapable of following her husband’s orders? Fenrir would not tolerate disobedience amongst his mates and often inflicted physical punishment simply for the effect of keeping them in line; their tears filling the jeweled goblet of his sadism. Fenrir’s nails grazed the surface of the table, sowing shallow lines into the wood. He knew his words had struck a chord within his company’s heart; not just because he himself had said them but because so many of the people Rodolphus surrounded himself with had also spoken of them in a repeating fashion. Surely from time to time it rubbed raw the death eater’s pride. But because Fenrir was part beast did not make him a less formidable opponent, or at least not in his mind.

”If I want something tame...I can always come here.”

At this the building tension within his joints burst. A razor-blade smile slit across his lips. “Domestication is no pleasure at all without domination.” He wetted his lips with a slow flick of his tongue. But the werewolf knew that despite his adverse beliefs towards the notion of matrimony that the strong flavor of rebellion lingered heavily upon Bellatrix Lestrange; the scent hard for any man of their quality to pass up entirely. The honey-sweet grin twitching the corners of Rodolphus’s mouth upward made Fenrir’s stomach churn in distaste. He knew it was a mere ploy to attract the eye of woman, like moths to a lantern, but the faux compassion behind it was unsettling. But he kept his comments to himself and instead tipped in his head back before swishing a mouthful of firewhiskey within his greedy mouth.

”Well aren’t we lucky.”

Fenrir watched the flicker of grotesque curiosity flashed across Rodolphus’s icy mask. A raspy, low-pitched snarl of gratification ghosted out from between Fenrir’s parted lips. His ugly, blue orbs narrowed into slits. He would not reveal any sliver of information regarding his mates to anyone outside of his pack without good reason, the death eater would simply have to stew in his inquisitiveness; though perhaps that was something he cared little for either way. But Fenrir could not stop himself from grating, ”More than some dare to realize.” It was more than an agreement towards his own personal satisfaction but a confirmation to Rodolphus’s suspicions.

“When the Ministry falls none of us will be forced to remain in the shadows any longer. The scum and the fools who would rule and repress us will be put in their rightful place. Things will be as they should be. I’ll personally ensure your kind will be rewarded for the role you’ve played.”

Though not fully sold on Rodolphus’s promise, delighted sparks exploded behind his vision. If the death eater held true to his word than surely his pack would be freed of their undisclosed prison. Like putty Fenrir was easily meshed beneath Rodolphus’s boney hands at the man’s words that were no doubt what Fenrir had always desired to hear. The brute gave way to flattery. Pride etched into his face.

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“Domestication is no pleasure at all without domination.”

How damn true that was. For Rodolphus the game was always one of domination and control. People were there to be dominated. Be it through complete and open ownership or the strings of power loitering over their heads like a puppeteer. They were all inferior. Muggles, mud-bloods, creatures, even his fellow wizards, they had all proven with their actions that were incapable of controlling themselves, incapable of behaving in any way other then pathetic lost savagery. They needed guidance, a leader, a master to put them in their rightful place. In the end they would fall to their knees and thank them for what had been given.

He wasn't at all unaware of the suspicious gaze Fenrir settled on him, his own attention turned with that easy smirk to his drink. Rodolphus was a creature of his ego, true enough, knew with all certainty he was better then any other. But he was not a fool. Physically the werewolf undoubtedly had the upper hand. This little charade of cards needed to be played to the chest very closely indeed for he knew the moment there was the smallest hint of a trip up even he wasn't fast enough to outrun the beasts wrath. It was a rather disconcerting fact. Usually with his impressive height and wiry build he often had the physical on his side. He didn't much like being on the opposite side of that coin. Neither of them were the type of men to have 'friends'. Rodolphus didn't have people that he trusted completely even his brother and wife were held with what he thought of as a healthy suspicion. The old Lestrange paranoia rife in it's eldest son. No he trusted the werewolf infront of him about as far as he could throw him, which considering the substantial size advantage wouldn't be all that far at all. The word friend had long become an empty one in his vocabulary, brandished about brazenly when it might have some use. But Greyback need not know that.

“Indeed.” He agreed drawly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “I never could resist a challenge.” He explained perhaps on the subject of his wife, perhaps on the matter that lay on the table now. That in the end had been the exact reason he had married her. Rodolphus Lestrange the perpetual control freak had seen an impossible challenge to be tamed and ran away with it. Over twenty years later he was still working away at it. He wondered if Fenrir was aware of his place in these games. When the dark lord had announced the werewolf should be recruited to their cause Rodolphus had heard one word alone: pet. Another game of all but impossible ownership and a very deadly one at that. But those were the most fun to play.

Rodolphus gave a dark throaty chuckle as the werewolf agreed he was indeed lucky. He promptly allowed that strain of conversation to die out certainly not feeling the need to follow it up for further details. He took a long sip of his drink to stop the satisfied smirk that threatened to cross his face at the pride that crossed the werewolf's features at his promise. Bullseye. He refilled the glasses once more, the bottle considerably lower then it had been. “To the future.” He offered, glass raised in toast before he downed it in one. The shivering burn down his throat was especially sweet.

((I have a very disturbing image of Roddy sat on Voldemort's knee 'and what would you like for christmas?' 'I wanna pet werewolf!!' Shall we wrap this one up? I feel we've set a nice tone of the relationship for them to run off and cause mayhem in the future.))

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[fenrir]

”Indeed. I never could resist a challenge.”

Perhaps, Fenrir mused watching the man before him with great care, a challenge is exactly what brought Rodolphus to the alter alongside Bellatrix Lestrange. The thought of taming the untamable, the victory of a deeply seeded power struggle was far more engaging than a willing surrender. And Mrs. Lestrange was no timid maid; surely she fought tooth and nail; if a challenge was the concern than a challenge was exactly what Rodolphus had wedded. The fire whiskey singed the tissue within his throat inflicting a dry wheeze from the pit of his chest. A silence settled like a fog between the two.

Most within the pub waddled with leaden steps, eyes yellowed by drink. A heavy musk radiated from their bodies making Fenrir’s stomach flip in distaste. His sensitive sense of smell flared within the small joint. It was mildly ironic; Fenrir himself lacked a complete system of hygiene preferring to wash whenever desired. His definition of a bath was skewed and consisted of running through the rain with or without clothes depending on his mood. He claimed it was the natural way; the wolf within had no boundaries or insecurities but was free. A floral aroma broke through his muddied thoughts and lifting his face Fenrir spotted a woman near the front, her lavender cloak hung on a peg by the door. She was pretty, but he could immediately gather that her skin was made of fine porcelain; nothing of worth. It was peculiar that someone like her would be out alone at a time such as this.

”To the future”

Unlike Rodolphus, Fenrir merely tilted his chin. A low growl built up softly from the base of his throat like an unhinged purr. Though robust and quick on his feet Fenrir was not an intelligent creature, his instincts were strong and often alerted him to any impending danger that threatened upon the horizon. But his knowledge of the world and its inhabitants was dimmed. Magic was simply a game of memory; this word shot out that spark while another unlocked doors. He had no understanding of the information that lurked beneath spells and curses and he had never acquired the patience to learn. Though he could tear any oppressor to bloodied shreds in a matter of five, lustful seconds Fenrir could also be sent spiraling backwards outfoxed by any foe. Sharpened nails clinked against the mug as Fenrir made to grasp it tightly in his fist before lifting it to his tongue; the molten liquid flamed like fire against the roof of his mouth before settling to ashes in the pit of his stomach. The pain was a sensational treat.

“There isn’t a lick of sense about girly,” noted Fenrir, indicating towards the woman who had previously captured his attention. His eyes rolled towards the empting bottle resting upon the hard tabletop. A smirk pulled at his lips like string. Cracking the bones within his giant paws Fenrir shivered vaguely at the popping of joints; the jingle was a soft tune to his ears. With a flick of his tongue Fenrir wetted his lips. “Places like these at this time of night,” he pressed greedily. “are full of bad men; not safe for little girlies.” She was obviously alone for the evening judging by the span of time she had spent to herself and a copy of Witch Weekly; unless her date was running late, a rather unfortunate incident. The werewolf breathed out slowly, warm breath coiling in transparent wisps. He focused his attention solely on Rodolphus and leaned back into the wooden seat; the muscles within his breast grew taut.

(Haha^^ someone needs to draw that deliciously bad image. :3 And I agree entirely these two have set things up quite nicely)

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Rodolphus' gaze settled on the empty bottle of fire whiskey now perched on the table debating for a moment calling over the bartender to provide another. He had always been partial to a good drink. Rodolphus was not a man who did things by halves, obsessive and decadent by nature. The Malfoy's had always been a family who collected their wealth while the Lestrange's sought only power and the indulgent debauchery it brought. For Rodolphus it was all about the pleasure and what could be gained. Drinking was an excess most were aware he indulged in just a little to often. The moment he was about to lean back and wave over the grubby little bar staff for another Fenrir spoke up.

Swamp green eyes followed his comrades to the young woman across the room, noting the petite features and smooth white skin – rather pretty. Though prettier perhaps, he allowed the moment of indulgence, if they were covered with her own blood. How... intriguing. Now that was indeed more interesting then a drink any day. Either she was very brave, or very foolish most likely both. Few women would walk into this place alone willingly and any that would he was certain he would recognise. Had she been beckoned here by some handsome lover and left abandoned? Driven by desperation to the local watering hole? Such a shame for her. The werewolves cruel smile was infectious and a truly wicked smirk soon spread across the eldest Lestrange's ancestral features. A glean to his eyes any other average citizen of the wizarding society might have gained when a hunt for nogtails was declared. The two men at the rickety table partook in a very different sport.

He gave a sharp laugh as Fenrir described the clientèle of the evening. Bad men indeed. And you didn't get much worse then the two sat watching the new piece of prey with the hungry gazes of predators. The poor thing had no idea. “It would be ungentlemanly to leave her sat alone.” He purred with all the silk of a true cavalier. Eyes flashing with a sadistic mischief. Perhaps this evening would offer up some true fun after all. He rarely got to play with fellow wizards when it wasn't a mission and those were quick jobs that neither required talent or imagination. This could be a very different matter. Drowning the very last of the firewhiskey he rose to his full and rather considerable (when not stood beside Fenrir Greyback) height. With long arrogant strides he crossed to the table the pretty little thing had chosen to occupy. The movement was not unnoticed by many of those around them, whose own gazes were promptly directed back to their drinks now the first move had been made. There was no one stupid enough here to protest their claim against the two monsters and their new found victim. “Mind if we join you?” He drawled with the charming smile he'd been showing off just moments earlier, this time put to action.

Someone's daughter wasn't coming home tonight.

-Fin-