oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone.
Brigade is so used to the idea of wolves being part of his family that he doesn’t expect the skepticism. He doesn’t expect the disbelief that washes across the King’s face, and he bristles beneath it. His wine dark ears lay flat against his poll as he lifts his antlered head slightly higher, stormy eyes going steely beneath the scrutiny. “A wolf,” he grinds out between his teeth, each syllable sharp and punctuated as he stares at the dragon with all of the arrogant confidence of a two year old stallion.
“The wolf doesn’t matter to you and neither does it matter what it means to me,” he says with an equal amount of grit, feeling his stomach tighten as he wades deeper and deeper into the interaction. He should have flown further to the Cove. Should have gone anywhere but the shortest distance possible.
But he knows Red doesn’t have forever and he can’t waste time flying there and walking the healer back.
Still he rolls his shoulder, irritated that he has to play Castile’s game, enter into this negotiation, when all he wants are solutions. “I am willing to do enough,” he says simply, knowing that he has precious little to offer the king before him. He has no power, no sway, nothing with which to bargain.
Nothing, that is, but himself.
“You have need of soldiers, I am assuming.” He casts his glance around them, straightening his youthful shoulders, his chin still lifted, his grey eyes still stormy. “I can offer you the strength of my back if that’s what it takes.” He feels the bite of desperation again as he thinks of his father’s biting anger, the panic that he had never seen in Daemron. He thinks of the maned wolf crumpled on the ground.
“I don’t have time so you either accept or I leave to find a more willing host.”
Loess may have the most healers, but they didn’t have a stranglehold on them.
Not yet, at least.
@[Castile]