10-22-2019, 10:29 PM
<link href="http://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Nothing+You+Could+Do" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"><center><table border="1" bordercolor="black" width="600" bgcolor="6E6E6E" cellpadding="30" cellspacing="0"> <tbody><tr height="0"><td><div align="left"> <font color="000000" face="Nothing You Could Do" style="font-size: 40pt"><i>a t r o x --</i></font></div><div align="justify"><font color="black" face="times new roman" style="font-size: 9pt"> Atrox does not have a heart.
Not in the metaphorical sense, although he supposes that the argument could be made there too, but in the sense that his heart is now an empty cavern of a thing. He doesn’t know the science behind what keeps him alive after the Chamber has been buried or why he has not died yet, but he knows that each day he wakes up somewhere buried in the depths of the almost-jungle kingdom his son has taken as his own and blinks his yellow eyes open. He ends up somewhere between relief and frustration and indifference.
Usually the latter.
But today of all days is different.
Because when he wakes up, he feels something strike at his chest and it rings in response. He yawns, revealing massive feline incisors, stretches, and then leaps from the branches of the tree. Curious, he shifts into his equine form—realizing with a start that it has been several days since he has done that.
His mane hangs in heavy ropes on both sides of his thick neck and his yellow eyes blink as he tries to gain his bearings. Then, he feels it again. He snorts—irritated with what he assumes are the games of the meddling magicians—when the memory comes, flooding through him. It is not entirely strange for him to think of Twinge but the sharpness of it causes him to inhale quickly in a breath of dizziness and anger.
It’s not her beauty that captures him (it never was, she was not much to look at) but that keen intelligence in her eyes. That strange way that she would set her mouth when she was determined. The look of feline eyes peering behind her or the scars that riddled her roughened coat. The way that she looked when she stood up amongst her sisters, nearly always the shortest of them, and commanded them with such ease.
It was the thought of her leaping into battle without a thought.
But these thoughts blur, ripple, fade in the presence of the thought of the flood.
He remembers the way the water took her so quickly; remembers the way it took them both. It is not fear that rattles in the back of his throat but it is loss and it is such an alien feeling that he nearly chokes on it.
Angry, confused, rattled—Atrox responds to a call that he would normally happily ignore.
He moves forward through Tephra until he finds the vibrant flowers that bloom so easily (persuaded by the gentle gardening magician who wanders these paths), but they do not catch his eye. It is, instead, the one that is nearly trampled that he sees. The one with bruised petals that has not yet succombed.
He angles his wide-jawed head and then reaches down to pluck it between his teeth.
He would feel foolish if he had any sense of self-consciousness, but instead he carries it, this battered red flower, and begins to move forward. He cuts through Sylva and then Loess. Makes his way through the forest and the river before skirting the plains and feeling the ground begin to give way to sand.
Cutting a path through a place he knows well, he walks toward the gathering.
For a moment, he casts a roguish grin to Agetta (who would have thought they’d end up here together of all places) before casting his yellow gaze back to the specter—waiting for whatever is to come next.
<div align="right"><font color="000000" face="times new roman" style="font-size: 9pt"><b>panther-stallion | ex-king | forever chamber guardian</b></font></div></font></div></td></tr></tbody></table></center>
Not in the metaphorical sense, although he supposes that the argument could be made there too, but in the sense that his heart is now an empty cavern of a thing. He doesn’t know the science behind what keeps him alive after the Chamber has been buried or why he has not died yet, but he knows that each day he wakes up somewhere buried in the depths of the almost-jungle kingdom his son has taken as his own and blinks his yellow eyes open. He ends up somewhere between relief and frustration and indifference.
Usually the latter.
But today of all days is different.
Because when he wakes up, he feels something strike at his chest and it rings in response. He yawns, revealing massive feline incisors, stretches, and then leaps from the branches of the tree. Curious, he shifts into his equine form—realizing with a start that it has been several days since he has done that.
His mane hangs in heavy ropes on both sides of his thick neck and his yellow eyes blink as he tries to gain his bearings. Then, he feels it again. He snorts—irritated with what he assumes are the games of the meddling magicians—when the memory comes, flooding through him. It is not entirely strange for him to think of Twinge but the sharpness of it causes him to inhale quickly in a breath of dizziness and anger.
It’s not her beauty that captures him (it never was, she was not much to look at) but that keen intelligence in her eyes. That strange way that she would set her mouth when she was determined. The look of feline eyes peering behind her or the scars that riddled her roughened coat. The way that she looked when she stood up amongst her sisters, nearly always the shortest of them, and commanded them with such ease.
It was the thought of her leaping into battle without a thought.
But these thoughts blur, ripple, fade in the presence of the thought of the flood.
He remembers the way the water took her so quickly; remembers the way it took them both. It is not fear that rattles in the back of his throat but it is loss and it is such an alien feeling that he nearly chokes on it.
Angry, confused, rattled—Atrox responds to a call that he would normally happily ignore.
He moves forward through Tephra until he finds the vibrant flowers that bloom so easily (persuaded by the gentle gardening magician who wanders these paths), but they do not catch his eye. It is, instead, the one that is nearly trampled that he sees. The one with bruised petals that has not yet succombed.
He angles his wide-jawed head and then reaches down to pluck it between his teeth.
He would feel foolish if he had any sense of self-consciousness, but instead he carries it, this battered red flower, and begins to move forward. He cuts through Sylva and then Loess. Makes his way through the forest and the river before skirting the plains and feeling the ground begin to give way to sand.
Cutting a path through a place he knows well, he walks toward the gathering.
For a moment, he casts a roguish grin to Agetta (who would have thought they’d end up here together of all places) before casting his yellow gaze back to the specter—waiting for whatever is to come next.
<div align="right"><font color="000000" face="times new roman" style="font-size: 9pt"><b>panther-stallion | ex-king | forever chamber guardian</b></font></div></font></div></td></tr></tbody></table></center>
![[Image: atrox.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/XBppy9VY/atrox.png)
now be defiant, the lion, give them the fight that will open their eyes