Sorry, Not Sorry [Diable Rouge, any]

[Longclaw]

LONGCLAW

-I close my eyes, ignore the smoke-

It’s usually not his M.O. to interrupt, or even care for that matter, but Longclaw is inclined to slow his pace as he winds through the umbra cover of Tephran foliage because he hears a phrase that would make just about anyone curious.

...Sylvan scum like you just like trespassing on Offspring’s land?” Is all he garners from where he pauses, though it’s more than enough reason to alter his course and glide evenly from the strange heat of the treeline and out into the winter sunshine. Floating over the sands of his home shore, Longclaw is showing physically what he’s put in mentally - time in the arena and time spent patrolling has left him hardened and lean - there’s prowess and authority in every step.

When he draws alongside Diable, the elder stallion makes him seem like a slick, blue sidekick; the roan is taller, thicker even. Longclaw tilts his head, draws a lazy (yet not unsatisfied) eye over Karaugh, and tilts his lips into an approving smirk when he stops on the pinpricks she wields from her mouth. “Tell me it’s not true, Diable!” He shouts rather amusedly, his mouth widening to glean his own set of fangs, “A Sylvian, trespassing?”

He jerks ahead, all traces of earlier mirth vanishing with the aggressive step. “Gryffen seems to be lowering his standards,” He spits, jade eyes flicking away in instant boredom.

Why had he intruded again? Oh … yes, that’s right -

“I have a feeling I’m not going to like whatever it is that you’re about to say.” The gleaming guard sighs, tilting his head back once more so that might throw Diable a suggestive glance.

“Maybe we should rip your tongue clean out of your mouth, right now.” He shrugs, disregarding who she might be or what purpose she might have here. “Send you back to Sylva with a message so clear you won’t have to say a single word.” He chuckles, eyes sliding back to where she waits.