05-20-2021, 06:46 PM
Wherewolf is slow to arrive, but not because he is incapable of moving quickly. Instead, like his mother, he is unhurried, especially when faced with the expectations of others. Their goals are not necessarily his and so the gold and tobacco pegasus takes his time. Like his manner, his flight is blunt, and short, and swift, with powerful wingstrokes that thrust him through the air rather more like a stone throne by a trebuchet than a knife.
Beware all who fall under his shadow.
He does come, eventually, though. Not because he said he would (unlike Obscene's beloved Fae, Wherewolf has no trouble lying or going back on his word,) but rather because he really has nowhere else to be. Even now, though, he is slow to land, circling the region prospectively. A part of it is scorched and it reminds him of the damage wrought in Nerine by the dragons. His mother had been gone at the time and he wonders unforgivingly what sort of a ruler leaves their land when it is being openly attacked, ignoring that he, too, would likely choose revenge over defending the miserable bit of rock that built the North.
Nerine and Loess both had burned that day, and his father with them.
He should probably feel more strongly about that than he does. Instead, Wherewolf feels nothing. He learned long ago that feeling things like that didn't serve, and so he balled them up and shoved them so far down below the layers of bitterness and anger that even Amarine couldn't find them. That was better. She had been too free with her magic, too ready to use it, too ready to help, and he hated the way those artificial emotions felt, the way they stirred things up that he preferred left to decompose in the soft mud at the bottom of his stagnant soul. Dangerous, that kind of magic.
He lands, finally, near a rather large mound covered in pampas grass and flowers. The grass sways deftly in a wind that the rest of the prairie doesn't seem to feel, rhythmic and slow like the breath of someone sleeping away the afternoon. The dappled stallion is not interested just now in investigating the strangeness of Obscene's home. There lies more trouble than its worth, as Neverwhere had discovered when the nuckelavee emerged from the sea - a scowl isn't much good against a thing with toxic breath and rending claws. Wherewolf, with his mother's scowl, turns away from whatever it is, delving deeper into the Pampeian savannah until a familiar voice rings out across it.
"Hares get eaten when they don't run," he says with a droll shrug, turning to face the red-eyed Prince, "D'y'know, someone's been burning your garden to the west."
Beware all who fall under his shadow.
He does come, eventually, though. Not because he said he would (unlike Obscene's beloved Fae, Wherewolf has no trouble lying or going back on his word,) but rather because he really has nowhere else to be. Even now, though, he is slow to land, circling the region prospectively. A part of it is scorched and it reminds him of the damage wrought in Nerine by the dragons. His mother had been gone at the time and he wonders unforgivingly what sort of a ruler leaves their land when it is being openly attacked, ignoring that he, too, would likely choose revenge over defending the miserable bit of rock that built the North.
Nerine and Loess both had burned that day, and his father with them.
He should probably feel more strongly about that than he does. Instead, Wherewolf feels nothing. He learned long ago that feeling things like that didn't serve, and so he balled them up and shoved them so far down below the layers of bitterness and anger that even Amarine couldn't find them. That was better. She had been too free with her magic, too ready to use it, too ready to help, and he hated the way those artificial emotions felt, the way they stirred things up that he preferred left to decompose in the soft mud at the bottom of his stagnant soul. Dangerous, that kind of magic.
He lands, finally, near a rather large mound covered in pampas grass and flowers. The grass sways deftly in a wind that the rest of the prairie doesn't seem to feel, rhythmic and slow like the breath of someone sleeping away the afternoon. The dappled stallion is not interested just now in investigating the strangeness of Obscene's home. There lies more trouble than its worth, as Neverwhere had discovered when the nuckelavee emerged from the sea - a scowl isn't much good against a thing with toxic breath and rending claws. Wherewolf, with his mother's scowl, turns away from whatever it is, delving deeper into the Pampeian savannah until a familiar voice rings out across it.
"Hares get eaten when they don't run," he says with a droll shrug, turning to face the red-eyed Prince, "D'y'know, someone's been burning your garden to the west."
@[Obscene]
