All I fear means nothing.
They hunger for chaos, they claim, but when a wolf is hungry he hunts; he does not wait for someone else to do it for him, he does not let his hunt be dictated by relationships and politics, he sets his sights on a target and then he and his brethren go in for the kill. It’s how the sick and the weak get singled out and obliterated, making the herd stronger as a whole—if they all preyed on the weaker kingdoms, Beqanna itself would be stronger as a whole. But Beqanna isn’t ruled by wolves. It’s ruled by ravens and dragons and fire.
Collectors, who coddle even the weakest like treasured silk while the fire tries to burn through them all.
He has observed enough to know that his cousin, the raven, is the only real threat that exists right now. The dragons of the west sleep; their wrath, too, finally at rest—but Tarnished is wise enough to know that the dragons are merely waiting. Waiting for someone foolish enough to wake them. Demian has lit a slow-burning fire in The Valley and its people have responded in kind. It means something to them. It means nothing to him, but he does what he is told; he watches, he waits, he guards, he patrols, he protects and it’s all for nothing.
There is no place for The Valley in his heart.
Demian isn’t stupid, he can sense it. See it. They have discussed it several times. It’s why he asks nothing of Tarnished. The king keeps him around simply because he enjoys his company, his counsel—they’re friends. So imagine the shape-shifter’s surprise when the King of the Valley comes to him one day and asks him to visit The Tundra. He doesn’t object, but warns that his ‘diplomatic’ skills aren’t the best—Demian waves off his concerns, sends him anyway.
“It’ll be good practice.”
Tarnished agrees.
But everyone is much more agreeable when they aren’t knee-deep in snow and wandering blindly through a blizzard.
Gritting his teeth, Tarnished puts his head down and presses on; the hair of his body has grown in response to the weather, thickening until the cold isn’t quite as unbearable and the sting of the wind doesn’t feel like the crack of a whip. He is used to the jungles and deserts of Beqanna, the source of all their heat, their fire—this place is something else entirely, and as much as he’d like to take a bite out of Demian right now, he starts to enjoy the struggle. It’s new. It reminds him that he isn’t invincible. And he likes that.
“How’re you holding up back there?” He smirks, but doesn’t bother to look back. The ‘crunch, crunch’ behind him is sufficient enough to let him know that Dominion is keeping up quite well.
“Enjoying the cold and the view… I’ve never seen this kind of landscape before, it’s lovely.”
He snorts, either ignoring the slight pause or thinking nothing of it. “Right, of course you’d say that.”
tarnished
equus mutatio, immortality, disease manipulation, trait immunity