In Dire Straits

ED DRAGON, RED DRAGON, RED DRAGON - RED DRAGON

He woke with a jolt, standing quickly, sweating and shaking. She had haunted him again. Terrorized his dreams, fueled him with something inside, the instinct to follow, to keep watch and be nobody special. For all he knew there was no moral behind, but he knew that he would follow her, follow the dragon. Even if it intended to claw him, hurt him and kill him, loyal like the dog he was Tarun would stand guard, moved by the red figure and her authority.

He needed to see her again.

He searched the jungle, called for her in desperate tones. My dragon he would whisper, call for her and eagerly hoping she would answer, but it would be hours and he saw her nowhere. Then she called.

As if struck by lightening he ran, he ran like the devil chased him and even though he was far away from her he did his best, pushed himself to his limits and when he did reach her, she was surrounded by others. Some faces he knew, some he didn't. He ignored them all, pushed himself forward and pushed aside a few faces he hadn't seen before, he reached the top of the top, saw grandchildren of the red dragon and pushed himself forward, not thinking, blind by loyalty as he heard them all call her name, "LONG LIVE" and hail they said. Sovereign. 

Crowned

"Red dragon!" He looked at her, saw her, feared her and admired her. He threw himself in front of her, bowed to her, didn't mind the others, didn't watch them or listen to them. He couldn't contain this any longer. "Dragon. Red dragon. Please, I beg. Let me serve you." Let me be close to you, and I shall obey.

Anzu had awoken him, as she did most mornings nowadays. But there was something different about today; the air felt heavier and the mist  that covered the forest floor felt thicker and colder as it clung to their pelts with dead fingers. He kept close to Anzu's side as the couple walked towards the gathering, heterochromatic eyes shifting uneasily as they scoured the shadows for anything malicious. Hercules cared deeply for the petite female that had befriended him outside the rose gardens not so long ago. They spent a lot of time together now, sleeping, hunting, talking about life and Alteron or just exploring the territory.

Spending time with Anzu meant avoiding the twins which was a really big bonus as far as Hercules was concerned. He wasn't constantly sporting new scars or fresh wounds anymore, thanks to Anzu. Hercules didn't like talking about home life with though. Didn't want Anzu to know how awful it was. He had decided to spend the night in her den once after a particularly nasty scuffle with his siblings and he'd never looked back. Ollie and Sarissa both had their own spaces now as well. They were all growing up it seemed.

Hercules slipped in behind Anzu, nudging her ear gently in reassurance when she presses herself gently against him. They had walked in on a tense situation and he knew she was probably nervous. His eyes bounced around from face to face as his brain tried to figured out what was going on. Hercules opened his mouth to speak when a black and brown female demanded silence and he clamped his mouth shut. Who was she? He felt Anzu's eyes on him and looked down to share a look of confusion with the girl. He shrugged his shoulders a fraction to indicate he was just as clueless as she was.

He looked up at the woman who commanded their attention, the who had taught him what it meant to be ruthless. Azuhel stood there above the crowd, with her red pelt blazing like a fire in the early morning light and he felt something ignite within him. She looked elegant and otherworldly, as if she could pluck the sun from the sky if she set her mind to it. She terrified him and yet he was in awe of her majesty.

He waited for the Dragon to speak.

The little bread loaf was awakened by his father, soft nudges with a cold nose stirred him from his snoozing. They were growing older each day, and Mordred more plump. His puppy fat was growing, rather than melting away. Though the gluttonous feeding was more of a hindrance than a help, the boy filling out at almost double the rate of his siblings. Molten eyes trailed after their father, Mordred's plump form scurrying after him. He didn't want to miss this, didn't want to miss where his mother and where Melek had gone. They were dear brothers, and yet Mord felt the spark of a competition swelling between them. He wouldn't be left behind. Not with a matter as important as this.

Molten eyes trained themselves immediately on Azhuel as she stood, grand and powerful at the head of the meeting. All eyes were trained upon the Dragon, Mordred's paws itching to inch closer, so he might smell the dominance radiating off her that she wielded almost effortlessly. While his siblings scattered about the clearing, Mordred's eyes were on Shatter, or rather who she was with. A pups attention was easily swayed, and his favourite milk mother was the centre of his world at the moment, his own eyes hungry as scorn and judgement licked at his conscience.

"BOW,TO YOUR SOVEREIGN. THE RIGHTFUL QUEEN OF ALTERON."

Lips peeled back in reactive support, Mordred's puppy teeth flashed from his position between Antaeus' legs. Though he felt brave today, under the watchful gazes of his mother and father. The plump pup didn't wander far, certainly not close enough to the heated action, but a step or two forward from his white faced father. The boy drank in the appearance of the bee coloured man, the one that was oh so disobedient to their rightful Queen. Though, to Mordreds disappointment, the man did bow, grovelling like a pathetic worm writhing in the dirt. He was almost hoping for defiance, for a fight. If only so he could witness his Mother tearing those grey eyes into sludge, stripping the flesh from his juicy bones.

"Silence."Let the Dragon speak." 

Searing eyes turned toward the small women. Mordred didn't know her, didn't know who the fuck she thought she was to be speaking out to the crowd, to his Mother like that. She looked small. Feeble. Weak. She was an adult like Mother and Father and yet she still remained so small. Was this what happened when wolves didn't eat properly? How he wished he was bigger, stronger so he might bend backs and break bones. His ego soared in his little head, devilish sneer on his lips as he regarded Anya with a mocking grin.

“Who are you to tell Alteron what it should do, Lady? You be silent, and our ruler will tell us when she wishes to speak.” 

”Yeah!! Shut your face!” He'd call, fat cheeks fluffing up as he growled, albeit more of a squeak than a growl. Half of it was questioning [ii]who[/i] this weak woman was, who was she to have the gall to question the motivations or motions of Mordred's mother? The other half was riding on the confidence of Oleander, the monochrome male with the piercing eyes. The fat boy's gaze shifted toward the fat cat that appeared, lips returning over his gums as he regarded this one more curiously.

What was it?

The pup has never seen a cat before, and for a moment Mordred is mystified by it, allowing him to sink back against the strong legs of his Father to refocus on the reason they came here. The boy mimics the gathering crowd, chubby face switching attention to where it should have been all along; his Queen. The calls for their leader erupted like a strike of thunder, a deep sense of belonging swelling up in Mordreds breast. It was a call for his voice to be among them, his vocal chords trembling as he fought to raise his voice as high as the adults. ”Alteron! The Dragon!!” He cried, pudgy body trembling with the ferocity that burnt with his belly.

The blood of the Dragon burnt within his veins.

Cuff did not want to be there.

She could feel her heart thundering behind its cage of flesh and bone as she stood, stiff and cold, watching the proceedings and waiting. She felt as fragile as a bird in that moment as she waited for the inevitable to happen, felt as brittle as the dry leaves fracturing delicately beneath her feet. The feeling of Aspen's cheek buried in her fur was only a minute comfort, but it was grounding in a way. It reminded her that she needed to be strong, even if the image she struggled to uphold was fake. Even if it was all make believe.

(The silver woman had gotten good at playing pretend. Her children didn't even realize that the pillar they always leaned against was slowly crumbling.)

She stood, quiet and firm, watching the Dragon, drawing in a deep breath before pushing the air through her nose in a carefully controlled exhale. Her words to her children who arrived and found her side came soft, careful, but there was no mistaking the firm undertone. "Stay close," she whispered, keeping her attention forward. The only time it strayed was to linger, very briefly, on the Dragon's family. On her children. Grandchildren. Nieces and nephews. Mates.

(So many. There were so many of them. It truly was a hoard.)

But ultimately, her gaze finally moved on from them and settled on Anya, the beautiful darkling woman who had granted her some measure of happiness, once upon a time.  Who had unveiled her crimes and chosen not to swing the sword. Who had spared her life to spare her children. Who she still owed so much to. She did not deserve the harsh scrutiny of these people around her. She did not deserve their disrespect. Anya was cold but Cuff could not ever recall her being cruel, and for the silver outrider that was enough. She wanted desperately to join her side in that moment like Lynx, like Umbra, and yet—

She couldn't. She couldn't. In the end, all she could do was stand back and watch her, watch her with something terribly blank in her expression. Something tired. Something resigned.

(I'm sorry, Keystone, but I have my own that I need to worry about.)

Eventually, Cuff forced herself to tear her gaze away. She had to. There were other matters that commanded her attention then. Matters that she could not afford to turn her back on and ignore. Judging by the echo of voices all around her, it wasn't hard to figure out what was happening. Wasn't hard to realize what needed to be done. It was hard, yet all the same, Cuff did not hesitate. She turned back to the Dragon and bowed her head, lowly, so very low, her muzzle descending until it finally touched the ground in a cold, reverent kiss.

Long live, she thought hollowly.

The blue Herald was a quiet figure when he arrived, all warm smiles and lumbering footsteps and wild fur. He was an eager puzzle piece, an essential part and only one of many to arrive, there to take part in a grand picture that could not be completed until all were set in their proper places in the end.

It was Caesar who he ultimately chose to stand near after easing his way through the crowd. Caesar who he regarded briefly before turning away to study everyone else. There were many faces gathered there who he unabashedly stared at—people that he both recognized and did not. They were the faces of the blessed, the wicked, and the unknown. All of them there to answer one call. All of them there for one reason.

Eventually, it was his mother that his warm eyes finally found. His mother, who's blood tamed fires and forged legends. His mother, who burned brighter, fiercer, than anyone there. His mother, who watched them all now, who prepared to make history once again.

Flicking his long tail, Cocytus shook out his ruffled pelt and panted lightly, the ever present smile on his face only growing larger the longer he continued to watch as the people around him dropped their heads and pledged their allegiances to his mother. It was an inspiring image, and an undoubtedly beautiful one, and Cocytus couldn't recall a time where he'd ever felt prouder. Happier.

(The pressure of family and duty was a heavy weight to bear, but it made him content.)

His smile didn't change, but something eventually did, something in the air around him gradually shifting as he turned his head, slowly, easily, watching Anya and Gideon join and stand together, side by side, each of them two weapons, two swords. Both as cold and sharp as ash in winter. They spoke and it was intriguing to hear. Intriguing to see what would happen in the silence following the young man's words.

Standing patiently, Cocytus did not intervene and he did not speak.

He simply turned back to his mother, still smiling, and waited.

(Nearby, a golden wolf arrived and stood by his family, watching everything through sharp eyes singed by fire and rage.)

Massive teeth snapped down with a harsh crunch, crunch, crunch on the frail form of a once squawking bird. Had she been a more cautious frightened sort, she might have worried about the splattering of feathers that covered the lower half of her maw or the slight blood that dripped onto the dew-moist ground around spread digits.

She wasn’t, of course. For, what her cousin didn’t see wouldn’t hurt Izanagi, certainly, but it wasn’t as if the birds were entirely off limits to consumption and she’d swore she might have seen another wolf of darker pelts eat one too…

Ah well, she didn’t intend on being cau—

Then a call, loud a commanding and Izanagi just knew there wasn’t going to be time for any bathing among the soothing Alchemist Tower waters. Inconvenient that. But she came either way, lumbering forward with flared nostrils and feathers stuck among the thicker clumps of her pelt that just screeched something wild and…

Maybe she should have groomed before her arrival. She hadn’t known so many wolves would be there, crowded about Azuhel who settled on her throne of mixed matched morals and schemes.

But that was fine, since she was slinking through the crowd, spotting an angry Ollie—and oh how she suddenly missed her husbands, the missing one and the grey one, whom she made sure to keep company while he moaned and groaned in his cell—and various wriggling babies that belonged to Azuhel and… in some way, belonged to her.

Blood was blood, after all.

But it’s really the display of those individuals, few in number, that seem keen on standing beside a figure she hasn’t seen much of before. That’s the interesting part of the meeting, no doubt.

The very interesting part.

---

Koko thought it was awfully cold that morning. She thought that, despite the pelts she pulled tight around her, that dread curled nastily in her belly and stole away her warmth while her bones rattled—trembling…

Something was off.

It’s not the absence of Lynx, though she is somewhat irritated about that, considering she has to track down the cat so often and… well, she does like to sulk and glower at the bottom of trees she thinks the cat is in but… it’s something…

Maybe it’s the haunting call of her mother, shifting through the swaying canopy and startling the birds? Either way, she doesn’t have time to think much about it, not when there’s a pressing urgency within her. Something that has to do with the way the morning is—all icky, in her opinion—than the call itself.

Dread is just churning away in her, so that could have been a bit of her sour mood to.

Still, it is nice to see Lynx and she’s just about to approach when the cat turns to stand by someone else, all proud and… What is that? What is this?

Her lips pull down in a envious frown. Her muscles tight, her breath a soft hiss through her clenched teeth—

What are you doing? Her gaze screams, who are you with? Get away from her!

Lynx should be over here with hEr! Not next to that oThEr.

Her fur is puffed out, her petulance is clear, but there’s something else rattling about in that brain that had everything to do with obsession and hoarding and—

LyNx, lYnX? Lynx! LYNX!

That look on her face. That almost brave posture. Was that concern in the cat? Care? Had she ever been looked at like that? Even though she’d given Lynx so many gifts of meat, flesh, and—

Goodness! She is just so very displeased with her!

---

Rosewood was not happy.

No, that’s not a fair assessment. She is rarely happy. Her emotional range had always been stunted, rubbed raw by a desperate attempt to be better than them. The wolves. It had been corrupted by servitude, twisted by beings that claimed to own and control her and her own lack of ability to escape the metaphorical vines that kept her tethered to court. She’d been domesticated in a manner she could hardly explain, and she felt it had everything to do with shifting shadows and monsters of will than her own lack of inner strength and mental fortitude.

But, well, she could admit that she was sick, sick enough to fall and drown in the illusion of power and choice that Shatter weaved. So, it was difficult to justify not remaining a pretty piece of treasure among her bone scattered den.

At least she was clean.

So, she came after her family, with brighter eyes that still humbled the storms of indignation and stolen loyalty. She hated them, their little family. She loved them too, in a way that felt wrong but to deny that she was a kaleidoscope of rattling feelings would have been… foolish.

She was just as much wrapped up in them as they were in her, she hoped.

So, much so that she scarcely noticed she’d taken place beside her lord Antaeus. Mostly, she was there to keep an eye on the little whelps they’d brought with them, and despite being tiny and slight, she wouldn’t hesitate to nip and step on them if they tried to wriggle away—

Ack, the fat one was running his mouth!

So much for keeping a low profile, but her wand to just silently observe and inwardly cackle won’t keep her from reaching out a paw to try and step on him and then draaaaag his plump little body back to her as she spared only a momentary glance at any who might have tried to address him and his mouth.

It wasn’t her place to do much more than that, but she did display her aristocratic sneer of irritation.

She won’t give them anything else.

She stepped down from her self-claimed throne to be among them. Physically. Metaphorically. She placed herself on even ground, a creature of the earth—just as they were—calmed and soothed by the rays of the beating sun upon her pelt. This was not the first time Azuhel had greeted the rising dawn. She suspected it wouldn’t be the last either. Who was she, some animal made of meat and bones, to claim that her control was endless? Hadn’t Rapier thought the same? Fat and heavy on power, munching and munching and munching until her paws had become to fat to properly hold their leashes? What of Scimitar, with his crystal sepctar and sharp wit? Or Arith? Or Dark? Or Ajax?

Gone, gone, gone, gone.

So that left Azuhel to do the work, to burry the bones, to tend the fires and hope with what little her core was capable of that she would not, someday, find herself a beast fit for slaughter brought to the very tip of Alteron proper so that she could stare down at the shifting trees and rocks while she fell fell fell fell fell—

Until she splattered on the earth she coveted and became one with the muck.

But, that was a very small grievance among her tiny island of fears. Death was irrelevant. Delusion screeched that she’d be reborn, that her bloodlines hummed thick and heavy through the bulk of Alteron like so so so much poison. Sweet and heady, corruptive. If jaws found themselves about her neck, if the burden of her gobbled authority pushed upon her being, she would crumble—all smiles, always smiling—and scream worship to the heavens as she did so.

Let them take her. It would do little. Her wretched dragons could burn and eat and hunger just as well as she could.

But that was neither here nor there. Today was not the day she would tumble off the edge of cliffs or find her blood moisture for her farms. Today was the day she would bring about new order, breaking the constant flimsy web of lies she had spun… before she twisted better ones out of steel, to be covered with pretty glass—

Just incase she had to break them again, you see.

“Orcrist,” she drawled, seated beside him, proud of his distinction and the wealth he’d managed for himself. A wealth she had no issue acknowledging as they waited to greet the collective together, “Lord Orcrist, that is. Good morn’ tah you as well.”

Because he was noble, even if his father wasn’t. Even if he was born from kings and queens and conquerors that had been little more than fodder for the masses. Scimitar and Rapier’s sins wouldn’t be his own, not during their rebirth.

Not until she needed those sins again.

But he was not the only wolf that would need her attention today, nor was he the last. With only a sly grin of recognition to share between them she’d soon turn her attention back to the gathering collective, noting with pleasure as faces made themselves apparent.

Until, he arrived, the crumbled Tower, patched back up with mud and sticks and a better, if not as lustrous, foundation. Interesting, that. Would she have noticed him lurking on the edges of the empire, watching with the emptiness of those forgotten? Of those who thought themselves so much better despite the lack of flame and ambition?

Did it matter, really, in the end? Since her gaze was upon him as soon as Shatter arrived, a strutting soldier whose inner being burned and burned and burned?

So much like her own, really.

And she growled, spoke with all the authority Azuhel had granted her. Spoke with the familiarity of those who had no rules, no true law to follow, unless she bore it. There was a reason Azuhel had found it imperative to capture her, to tighten the chains of servitude and craft a grand vassal out of a once wayward ball of simplistic ire. But now, now Shatter was a forge, open and yawning and heated. Azuhel figured she could push a great deal of those rough-edged predators toward the other and hope for something more refined to be spat out the other end.

Dead or polished.

And she made Lemieux bow while she cried to the skies—Sovereign, Sovereign, Sovereign.

of course, Lemieux announced, long live the sovereign

and was he being truthful, this worshipper of someone long gone, this wolf who had been abandoned and left to endure madness and solitude alone…

did it matter…

It mattered about as much as whatever the people found cause to call her. Sovereign. Dragon. Lord. Or Lady. Meaningless, words, drivel. She considered herself the Dominus in her mind, the top of the top of the top—romanticism and poetry, all of it. But they could call her anything, Azuhel or otherwise, so long as they bowed.

Because, eventually, they would pray as well.

She shifted her gaze from Shatter, from Lemieux. From her returned daughter—Oktober—and then to Sarissa.

Who was always talkative, wasn’t she?

Sarissa claimed a lack of sincerity from the former Eye, and Azuhel only gave a soft rumble of chest—a chuckle, perhaps absorbed by the overall crowd as they began to shuffle forward—at the idea of it. Whether he was true to himself or not, she didn’t think him the sort of wish for… destruction among the populous.

But she wouldn’t be the one to condemn him to further theatrics. She had another purpose here today, “If the Viscount and the Commandant believe he isn’t sincere, then perhaps they could fix that.”

She’d leave it up to them to figure out how.

After all, it was their task to sniff out danger wasn’t it?

So that she could focus on more grand ideals?

“Thank you, Caesar.” Azuhel resumed her polite greetings, attention expanded, as these particular meetings could get full and complicated the more bodies wriggled into them.

Her grandchildren, his children, began to wander in perhaps to young to understand the true implications of the moment—unless Atlas children—but old enough to witness. It was a good thing the bulk of them were currently out of the way, no need for any of them to get hurt if--

“Ah,” Azuhel drawled, “and what is this?”

Piper came before her with a bundle of… surprises! They were delightful and appreciated, naturally. Grand. Further staples of the mantel she would eagerly wear, even if it crushed her, she supposed.

“I appreciate this, more than words can say.”

And it was all very sincere. Azuhel adored the lantern and the pelt offering. Furthermore, she enjoyed the impact she’d made on Piper’s life, for her to feel the obligation to gift her in such a way was… well, very enjoyable. “Whatever you need to further your trade please let me know.”

Let it be known that Azuhel was generous. Every civilization needed a lure, after all.

But still they came, and as they did so, Azuhel became more at attention. Her accent slipped into that general state of southern regality, the voice of the educated and proper. She had an empire to establish, a reign to press down upon them, a culture to… cultivate and a sense of inventive progressive academia to impart.

She’d carry them all, any who asked, any who begged, into a new order of prosperity, on her back if she had to.

A wolf likened to a son appeared, black pelted and attentive right behind an eager citizen, whose cries also joined the call of Dragon. But it’s the roar of Antaeus that makes her smile some wide eager passionate thing that doesn’t quite reach her gaze until…

he’s here, he’s here—

Her mind is a mantra of obsession and a hard knock rattles at the cage of her mentality, at her heart, at her very being when she spies Crow slip among them. And for a moment, ichor drips into her gaze—frenzied darkness, of memories shared, of conversations that dwelled well enough the night and the thick cloying smell of burning flesh lingering among dark pockets of smoke. He was but one figure among her most precious, but that made him no less important. She wanted him to see her, and oh how she wished he would up to her and bow and kiss her wriggling toes.

But he didn’t, and she wouldn’t make him.

He’d bowed to her a long time ago.

So she met his gaze then let it slid away, back to the chilling calculation she needed to express to hold court, and that was what it was… court.

A child—her own—calls her name and another just as well, but it isn’t until Anya appears that all other voices seem to fade into the background. After all, Anya is the woman of the hour, the princess, the remaining unblemished spot on a hierarchy fated to crumble.

But she can fix that, or maybe Anya can dirty herself all on her own.

She tries to silence the cheering, to command silence so that she can speak. It’s enough to make Azuhel give a tilt of her head and a twitch of ear as she swings her gaze over to the girl, the nameless ruler, the key in the stone.

There’s a stutter in the sounds around them, not surprising. Perhaps, those of the bold and loyal, hadn’t expected Anya to command ]anything of them. What right did she have to do so? What gifts had she given? What blood had she bled? What acts had she done—

Oh, there was something she’d done though, a grand act, a perfectly placed lie. The only thing Anya had had to do was play her part, and she did for a time… but when had she become this, this obstacle on the other end of snarling teeth? Azuhel kept a cordial expression, it wouldn’t do well to be seen acting the savage or ruffled, but she does attempt to toss a look to Anya’s father.

She hasn’t forgotten the promise she made him.

But the people have done no such thing.

Incubus taking of the children away from wrestling about her feet is welcome. She’d only toss him a brief look to let him know he was thankful before she turned back to the matter at hand. If there was blood, if she was attacked, then she’d prefer not to crush her own children with her bulk.

Then the first outcry, brought by the young adult Oleander, who she had promised his enemies agony. He spoke with all the outrage she had predicted he would, for Orc’s children—and, maybe she should have warned him of Atlas sense of otherness—had no doubt inherited a bit of a temper. She couldn’t be entirely blamed for that, could she?

And Atlas, bless her angry soul, was already baring her teeth at Anya.

Perfect, perfect. Let the anger boil over. Let their worship spiral out of control.

She’d feed the mob if she needed to. She enjoyed the… chaos of it.

But in that same moment the cat quickly moves to Anya’s side, readied. There’s no mistaking that action, not among the crowd of worshipers, not when others have bowed or otherwise proved their worth. It was a clear action, one that screeched of the side she’d taken, but Azuhel had known Lynx was never hers, and she is neither hurt nor surprised by the act.

So, with a soft smile—cold and unkind—she’d say, “Traitor.”

Because she’d always known that cat couldn’t be one of them.

One with Alteron.

The cheer starts up again, done by Tarun as he threw himself at her feet but she is watching the giant bear hobble in, and the look she gives Orc once that happens is a bit bewildered. What’s all this? But the beer introduces himself and then sits behind Anya of all people.

Still, she’s always polite. “Hello Rooter.” She’d greet him nonetheless.

More are speaking, a grandchild to back up another grandchild before he cried her name. It was all very appropriate, especially as more came to follow and—

“Cuff,”

Just her name. A short greeting. You can’t hide from her.

But really, it isn’t the incoming Cocytus, other family members, or even Kaede that grip her attention after that.

(and while, in another time, in another place, she would have responded with a cocky grin and a whispered ‘oh yes yes yes, this does bode well, very well indeed’ she just doesn’t have the time for it now)

It’s precious Gideon that comes forward then, angry and rightfully so at the calls of her bloodline.

And she’s oh so certain that his statement is going to go unmet, and that soon it’ll be her time to truly speak but well… Warsaw was never one to hold back, to watch disrespect flow about him and those he’d claimed and, she can’t be upset or even surprised when he lunges at the group—

Those that had once been rulers now turned treasonous and worthless.

So she’ll stand abruptly then, knowing that now was the time for pent up aggression and a lack of restraint. That should would test her first order and see who listened and who did not. How many would burn for their pride… if they could catch them?

Her words are short—

“Restrain the Keystone and the boy”

No longer a king or anything else, just another failed project sticking close to another. If she'd been honest. If she'd had time to think, to introspect the anger that rolled in her chest and sent blood to her limbs, she might have realized she was... envious. Hated how The Boy stuck to Anya. Hated how he'd always seemed more akin to her, more like her, to innocent, to wide-eyed--

She hurt, in the way the maddened and crazed hurt. In the way a child hurt when they didn't completely own a toy. When a pet liked another better. But she didn't let it show because she couldn't name it, didn't realize that was why her gaze narrowed and her muzzle wrinkled. So she ignored it, let those shifting shadows of her gaze just shift to a slowly boiling fury as Anya stole this possession from her selfish and greedy embrace.

What they did with anyone else was their choice and once and if they moved to action, she’d say—loud enough to hopefully be heard—

“Don’t maim the boy.”

But causing him pain and torn flesh for his waggling tone? She hadn’t said no to that.

That is my only gift to you, Anya. Nothing else.

---

summary:

addressed as many as possible
let orc and shatter know they could do whatever they wanted with lem if they thought he was insincere
wagged tail at crow and family
went 'wtf' at the giant bear
stood up in defensive mode once warsaw struck out at gideon
ordered the pack to restrain anya and gideon
ordered the pack not to seriously maim gideon (also, don't do anything to his pretty tail, if you can grab his wriggling butt him you can beat him up)
deadline: November 7th (shorter if everyone posts)

this thread is now closed (unless Zasha wants in) to newcomers