[mature] don’t close the coffin yet; ryatah

[atrox]

Atrox does not spend a considerable amount of time in new Beqanna.

There is simply no need for someone as ancient as him, no need for him ever since the Chamber sank into the very depths of Beqanna—taking with it his heart and purpose in life. It is a strange thing to find that the one thing that kept you tethered for so long has been severed clean. He woke on the Mountain with the rest of the miserable souls of Beqanna and, for the first time in decades, did not feel that invisible rope tying him back home. He had spent so long with his heart placed outside of himself, but now he did not have one at all. Now he was merely wandering in a strange land, strangely empty.

But Atrox is, above all, a survivor.

He adapts and he has come to adapt to this. He takes up residence in Tephra. Partially because one of his only living children with Twinge rules there and partially because it reminds him of the jungle and the ugly, scarred woman who had died by his side there. It is enough to entertain him. Enough to pass the time as he finds root in the low branches and the shadows and the many nooks of the volcano.

But he and his golden son are not the only ones of old to still curse this land, and it does not take him long to root out the scent of her. His yellow eyes grow narrowed with curiosity, with amusement, as he tracks her. As he watches from afar as she lives out her days. Always so wrapped up in the plots of others. Always so easy to fall in love with, to fall in love. He is not surprised when she comes back one day with eyes. He cannot imagine who graced them to her, but he would not be surprised to know.

Still, he keeps his distance. Content to while away his time with his own amusing company, to pass the hours with hunting and shadows and the harmless spying of others.

Until even that is not enough to kill the boredom.

So he leaps from the tree, stretching his powerful body and digging his claws into the rich soil. His tail twitches behind him, golden eyes bright with amusement as he leaps forward, hunting down the unnaturally white mare. When he finds her, he saunters forward in his feline form, angling his wide head up at her as he gives a mischievous smile. “My, my,” he clicks his tongue against the front of his teeth, dropping his haunches. “You look mighty good for being significantly older than this dirt, Ryatah.”