oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone.
His father’s rage is nearly a palpable thing—nearly tangible in the way it floods from him in waves.
Brigade lifts his head at the keen edge of his father’s voice, the frown clouding his features as he looks into the distance, barely making out the shape of his father and the red maned wolf he stands over her. When he hears his father call for help—such a strange request coming from his normally fiercely independent father—his body responds before he can even think about, before he can react.
His wings flare out, white feathers gleaming and he launches into the air, covering the ground quicker from the air than if he had tried to race to his fathers side. When he lands, quickly and deftly, he cuts his gaze to Daemron and Red, studying them with an intensity that he could have only learned from his father. He angles his head toward the wolf, youthful antlers already taking on a proud arch, and then back to his father, studying the depths of his expression, discerning the black emotions that wash over him.
“What happened?” he finally asks, and his voice is huskier than before, a growl of rage that he doesn’t even understand beginning to make its way through him. “Should I get mom?”
But Pyxis couldn’t help—not really—and a muscle jumps in his jaw.
“Or a healer? Anyone?”
He had no idea of what he should do, but he know that he had to do something.
He couldn’t just sit here and watch his father come apart at the seams.
“Just tell me what you want me to do.”
@[Daemron]