this my blood, this my bone; castile / any

[brigade]

oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone.

Brigade has only a fraction of the patience that Castile exhibits.

He can feel the panic now, rising in his throat, pressing against him insistently as he watches the draconic stallion makes his way toward him. There is something about the other that screams of predator; something that reminds him that he is in the presence of someone more dangerous than even the pack of his father’s wolves waiting from him on the Tephran border. But that isn’t enough to dampen the panic for Red in his throat. It isn’t enough to sway him, and his somber grey eyes do not shift from the others.

“I need a healer,” he says, blunt as ever. He was never raised to understand the finer points of diplomacy. He was raised wild and fierce—within a kingdom but outside of its politics. He doesn’t understand the art of diplomacy or even understand the depths of danger he could be wading into. “My father’s wolf is hurt. I need a healer.” Perhaps it wasn’t what Castile would have thought would bring him here, but his family is not haunted by the plague—not yet. “I heard that there were healers living with the Loess borders.”

His voice is deep for his age and steady. There is no softness of his youth in his gaze. He is all edges and angles, the wings at his side pressed close and his face solemn, despite the storms that rage within him.

“My name is Brigade,” he offers, almost as an afterthought, his gaze flicking to the side before coming back to the King. “I don’t have much to offer in return, but I’m willing to bargain, if that’s what it takes.”

He just couldn’t return home empty handed.

That was the one thing that he couldn’t do.

@[The Plague] - do your thing!

castile words are never anything but amazing :|