Though his name wasn’t being said, he knew that the voice was referring to him. The wounded yearling nearly continues limping forward to hide amongst the thick foliage as was his plan, but he knew the trail of blood he left in his wake would give away his position almost immediately. So he halts, a scowl finding his sunburnt and cracked lips (that would be oh so familiar to Azazelle), dark eyes covered by a hooded brow. In his stopping, his partially healed wounds stop ripping and already had the blood begun to dry in the heat. His ears flick backwards into his pale mane, stained with the brown-red of his own blood. It’s so damn hot, he thinks to himself. A tiny sand crab, nearly translucent against the brilliant white of the sand, skitters near him. With a sharp snort, he lifts a foreleg and stomps resolutely. Part of the crab was hidden beneath the dark of his hoof, while the other half scrambles to get away.
Maugrim finally turns to look at the one who gave him orders (it hadn’t even been a suggestion, had it?) and his scowl ripples as a low growl rumbles in his throat. The ocean behind them stirs gently, as if the wind had picked up – but there was no breeze today. Had Maugrim been stronger, the churning of the water would have been more noticeable. The dark green and lavender colt notices the shining medal at the chest of the other, and for a moment let his eyes linger there hungrily.
It’s never occurred to Maugrim that he could perhaps have a family, or siblings. He has no idea that the color of his coat is distinctive and telling of who is parents were. He honestly had no clue that his father being Kirin might be the reason why he was so often given displeased looks by others or that he had spent most of the first year of his life completely isolated and alone. He did not know his family besides his mother, whom he had promised he would return to but never did. Poor Capture. He cannot tell why this stranger watches him with caution, with a haughty gaze and a somber frown, but he has seen the look before and is not surprised. This is why he would much rather hide amongst the shadows of the underbrush than to be out here in the open, trying to explain himself to those who truly do not want to hear an explanation.
He is different in the way he handles himself and he knows it. He also knows it is frowned upon by many.
“So you’re the one in charge, then?” Maugrim asks with a narrowing glare, his voice almost taunting. Are you, little king? The colt wasn’t much older than him and Maugrim feeds off the fact that his very presence is making the other uncomfortable and uncertain. He turns his body now to face them, the ocean gleaming behind both Azazelle and the winged colt. The sight of the water calms him slightly, but he can still feel the stirring of anger in his chest, growing like a storm as their superior stares nourish it. The turn causes more blood to spill from the sharp, wide wounds on his legs and shoulders.
Still no introductions have been made at this point. He asks if they’re here to see someone and Maugrim nearly laughs (but he never laughs). He’s never in search of anyone. He’s glad Azazelle was here so that she can perhaps explain to him what they’re doing here. Maugrim didn’t have the patience. He merely stares at him emotionlessly and thinks not to even answer, to turn around and walk away. What would he do? Maugrim could fight him if needed, the water was right there at his disposal. The thought of holding his lavender head underwater brought an eerie stillness upon him. Maugrim snorts as the sand that had entered his wounds grinds painfully. Not today – he was weak and though he would never admit it, he was tired. Maybe the resident could be of some use…for the moment. “I need freshwater,” he says curtly, his dark eyes flickering to Azazelle with recognition. She would need water too. Not that her wellbeing concerned him, he told himself.
m a u g r i m.