don't close the coffin yet, I'm alive; any

[atrox]

hangman hooded, softly swinging; don't close the coffin yet, I'm alive

There was once a time where Atrox was the only panther to stalk Beqanna. The only one to feel the dirt of it beneath his claws. A time when there magic was not so rampant and there were not creatures that could fold themselves into a million different forms and figures—bending their body around their wishes. But he knows in his ancient heart (or he would, if he had one) that such a time has long passed. His own genes have begun to populate the world with the black cats and there have been others outside of his lineage.

Still, for all of the shapeshifters and magic-gifted shifters in the world, he is partial to the panthers.

Partial to the form that he himself chooses to wear more days than not.

So when he hears the hiss, it’s more interest than anything that causes Atrox to lift his heavy head from where it rests against massive paws. He swings it in the direction of the sound, his yellow eyes narrowing in thought as he searches the darkness for the source of it. Beneath him, he feels the creatures begin to stir slightly and he glances down, tail swinging beneath the tree, as he considers letting them loose.

“Calm down,” he finally snarls, although there is no heat to the words. He has no desire to deal with the mess that they could cause by guessing at his wishes and so he gives them his lazy version of an order. When he is confident that they will not gallop off into the darkness, he turns his attention back into the shadows of the trees. “No need to hide, little cat,” he finally calls out. “I don’t bite.”

But the way his lips spread into a feline grin deems that a lie.

ATROX | THE PANTHER KING