Torture
She remains just behind his prominent thoughts, dancing and coiling like some unpredictable cobra. He often reminisces over their short time together (over the way she rolled beneath his body, over the way her dreaded locks fell against her shoulders, over the way the thicket closed around them like a protective curtain). Her request had not fallen on deaf ears, but he had chosen to ignore her.
He’d explored Beqanna’s wilderness until he grew familiar with the various trails — both thick and thin — that scattered themselves across the land. He remained alone until the scents of his past homes (scents of mates and herds and children and open plains and thick, foreign woodland) were drowned by the scents of his new home. He ran into a few new enemies and acquired a few new scars.
But his legs are restless as ever. He is an alternate version of the ghost of his mother. While she finds her peace and wanderlust satisfied among the fog of the Valley and the curve of her lover’s hip, the dark son finds no relief from the ache in his chest and the disquiet in his bones. So he turns his nose in the direction of the scents he found scattered across her ebony hide.
Although he is wild and untamed, the manners taught in the days of his childhood stick with him. He paces the edge of the border, teeth gnawing and muscles quivering. He is silent aside from the quiet flashes of breaths that leave his nose. A gentle spring breeze catches the flyaways of his forelock, sending them into the deep of his eyes, and he tosses his head impatiently.
He doesn’t call for her. She already knows he’s here.
@[Trissy] & whoever else wants to stop by