Simple lies, strange eyes; Ajatar, Longclaw

[Longclaw]

LONGCLAW

-I close my eyes, ignore the smoke-

Longclaw hisses. The sound of his name on that disgusting tongue sends the fur along his nape to shifting - it thickens, grays out, and then pricks with distaste as his father waits for them to move. “You worthless, stinking -” He begins, feeling the surge of adrenaline fill his lungs and widen his ribs. Words won’t do, Longclaw is stopped short in his speech by the amused flicker of a smile over Wyrm’s bright green lips.

He should kill him. Just like Wyrm had forced a childhood of bitter resentment down his throat, so Longclaw desires to rip that pointed tongue clean from its spot and shove it likewise down his own father’s gullet. “Would you like that, for us to come to blows?” He thinks, all the while the curse inside howls for release. Maim, maim, eat- It urges, Claw trembles to smother it beneath clear-thinking.

The pain trickles through his skin; he brushes it away at first. What are mere ant bites to the sting of a familial rivalry? Wyrm himself shuffles at the beginning, eager to trample whatever irritant might be gnawing at his exposed legs. His adept son watches those same, green hooves blur into nothingness, transparency. It won’t stop the spread, though.

“Did you know, sweet girl,” Wyrm says, turning those unsettling eyes to where Ajatar stands for an answer, “Did you know that your friend here likes to steal other horses’ powers, hmm?” He nettles, grimacing as the boils begin to fill and burst while the infection spreads above his knobbed knees. “LIAR!!” Longclaw screams out, rushing ahead though his steps are uncertain - Ajatar’s secret has spread across those blue-gilded ribs, over the proud rise of his velveteen chest.

Wyrm is quick to meet him. In the flash of a moment the green stallion shifts and darts forward, reaching back to send a cracking blow across the snarling face of his son. It sends Claw reeling; the power behind it cannot be matched so instead the ground rises up to break his child’s fall. “I came to stop him, maybe even see the magician he’s in league with.” Wyrm wheezes, the strength of his legs buckling for a moment. “They could’ve hurt you. No telling who they already have.”

From the side, Longclaw pulls his forelegs up. A racking cough seizes the iridescent horse; blood paints the grass in expert strokes of slick, wet crimson. Wyrm glances at the young stallion, then to the mare who seems unaffected by the sporadic illness. “Nayl and Nerine will be happy to give you safe harbor,” He hacks, taking a moment to catch his breath while his son groans incoherently, "This way.”

@[Ajatar] This is totally her choice, no strings attached!