oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone.
He hungers for more.
He is but a yearling, his body still youthful and stretched too long in some parts. His hip juts out and his antlers have begun to grow, but they remain small—not yet the dangerous things they will eventually become. His wings though. Oh, they are the most mature part of him. Helped in part by the magic that lets them switch and shift beneath his thoughts, shimmering between forms, stretching large and fierce.
But his eyes do not look youthful.
His eyes do not maintain that innocence of children.
His eyes are sharp and curious and overbright, the grey of them peering out from beneath a swath of wine-dark forelock, the hair growing longer with each passing day. Today, he does not have twin by his side, which feels strange in part, a ghost of a ligament that he can still feel, but he does not begrudge her her adventures. Does not begrudge her the chance to slip away and taste the foreign pieces of Beqanna.
Does not begrudge her the chance to follow quests and meet friends and find herself.
Just as she will not begrudge him this.
The wolfish boy sleeps out when the sun has not yet risen and although several of his father’s pack rise with him, they do not attempt to keep him leaving. They know by now that the red son of Daemron is as stubborn as his mother and as fierce as his father. His heart does not beat to the sound of domestic life and he does not pause as he takes to the skies, as his wings unfurl and lift him, as he passes the border.
Flight has come more naturally to him with each passing day, but he still tires easily, and when he reaches the forest, his coltish chest is pounding, his nostrils flaring. It was the furthest that he has ever flown, and although he knows that should concern him, he can feel nothing but a roaring hunger in his veins.
