Longclaw
He is learning, every day. Little Longclaw is no longer little - a stallion nearly grown with the faint hints of youth still evident in those long legs, that yet-to-fill-out chest and barrel. His mind is elastic as ever and it soaks up every encounter, most notably the joint effort of Deimos and his sire to have him continue down a path he may not fully understand yet. The beach had been a bloody, terrible ordeal, but now as he strolls along the worn paths of the Forest with pale blue butterflies of flame to circle his head, he learns what cost power has. He’d been willing to pay the price back then, Rapture had the glory, after all, the sight-without-eyes, and as he draws up to a stop where they’ve gathered he shudders with something akin to buyers remorse.
“Deimos is right.” The glimmering stallion barks, gliding past the black creature quivering in the nearby bushes. “You should probably shut your mouth.” He directs with a subtle flick of the eyes to the pale ring-leader. The butterflies converge and fizzle out dully; Longclaw had never been one for theatrics, especially now as he settles into this rather unceremonious gathering. From his viewpoint, they’d make a terrible crew. “You’re too weak to make waves, end of story.” He strikes bluntly, turning his attention away from the red-eyed ghost to the mare.
“Maybe, if you’re a good little boy, you can beg us to come along and help.” He speaks, entranced by the sight of that slick, pink tongue wrapped so effortlessly around her slender throat. With a slow blink he parts his lips, sighs, and decides against any action by turning his head back to the original source of disruption. “Not that you’ll be of much help anyways.”
One-Half contract between Wyrm and Heartfire
![[Image: sScEgld.png]](http://i.imgur.com/sScEgld.png)