Daemron + Trekk cont from b2g

[Daemron]

Falling petals drift down around them, but Daemron’s eyes remain trained upon the stallion even as his mother straightens his growing willow-mane. When they both answer his question simultaneously, his stare nearly pierces through their charade. “My uncle.” His young voice is saturated in suspicion, having caught the way his mother’s expression had reddened at their blundering. “Right.” Her lie is obvious, though for now Daemron allows it to stand. Turning his attention back to the winged tobiano, he dips his head in acknowledgment of his own name before learning the stallion’s own. “Uncle Trekk,” he reiterates dryly, humored to play along with their little hoax. “Pleasure.” There is a small tilt at the corner of his mouth as he witnesses their less-than-smooth recovery; while the stallion redirects the conversation, his mother distracts herself with the she-wolf winding about their legs. “I like it well enough,” he answers, “Not that I’ve been anywhere else. This is my home. Where else would I be?”  He shrugs a ruddy shoulder, thinking of his family. His pack. Daemron belongs wherever they belong – he doesn’t know that one of his pack has never belonged here. He doesn’t know that he might have had a different home, if fate hadn’t split Noori’s heart in three. “Where are you from?” His light grey eyes glow with a faint mixture of amusement and curiosity. He wants to know the reason for his mother’s lie, the stallion’s evasiveness. Stepping from Mother Spring’s side, he comes close to Trekk and stretches his neck to touch the broad side of a wing. Soft feathers brush against his muzzle. “I’ve wondered what it’s like to fly before,” he muses, glancing up at the tobiano with a look that seems to portray only a casual interest. With a life as saturated in magic as his, the traits and abilities of others would never truly astonish him. His she-wolf grows restless, snatching at some of the falling petals with sharp teeth. Daemron ignores her. “You aren’t really my uncle.” The statement is startlingly forward, though he is not so concerned with whatever the truth might be – he merely wishes to see how Trekk would respond to it. Ever observant, the colt’s eyes lock upon the stallion’s expression. Everyone carries their secrets in their eyes. He knows this. He’s seen them there before – in his brother’s stormy gaze, in the furtive looks that sometimes pass between Eight and Noori – and in Trekk’s eyes when he first beheld Daemron only moments ago. daemron trekk § noori WHEN THE SNOWS FALL AND THE WHITE WINDS BLOW, THE LONE WOLF DIES BUT THE PACK SURVIVES