you're the beacon / birthing / warrick & any

[Longclaw]

LongClaw

-I close my eyes, Ignore the smoke-

Beqanna seems to have cartoonish feelings about her resident shifters. Longclaw hasn’t seen another one in quite some time - the true Kin often lose themselves to their second spirit or end up rejecting it totally. It’s a hard line to walk, after all; one soul at war with the other, always feeling torn in two directions … predator and prey rarely ever coincide harmoniously.

That’s not to mention the stark difference between a born shifter and one, like Diorae, who earns their claws later in life.

Claw knows his she-cat is out there, heart and mind warring against each other, and all he can do is hope to be one step ahead. Imagine: nine long years of being yourself, confident in your own skin and personality and then, *BAM*! Just like that you feel overstuffed, like the feeling when dessert comes around after a hearty thanksgiving dinner. You can’t possibly take anymore, but you do, because you’ve been given no other choice.

He knows, too, that Marigold has struggled with a latent sort of power. It comes and goes, in blinding flashes of reality that confuse and sometimes lead her astray; she’s got split-personality disorder something bad. He fears for her safety, for his child’s safety, but most importantly, the safety of other Tephran’s.

Were she to bring horror and danger with her, Marigold’s home here could be swiftly taken away. Warrick (Longclaw knows) would refuse to harbor a threat to his own people.

He does what he can. Keeping tabs on her with his fire bird, tracking her when he must. Sometimes she slips away from the Tephra shores and, on those instances, he lets her go freely. The law of Beqanna didn’t restrict her from what she was due: a lion must hunt to survive. Only here, on the Island with the looming Volcano, does he watch her like a hawk - but even today that keen eye slips.

He has other children, and Femur also grows jovially round. Despite his best efforts they tear his attention away from the slinking cat and when he turns back to seek her out, she’s long gone. With a curse underneath his breath, Longclaw dons his wolf suit and heads out to find her.

A good thing, too. He’s tracked her all night and into the morning, following loops that bend back on themselves in her attempt to dislodge him from her trail. Marigold is clever, but she can hardly make herself lighter - a large animal leaves large signs of their travel. Finally, his nose leads him to a quiet corner of the islands where the spring grass has begun to thicken. His urgency falters; maybe she came here because there weren’t others around?

And then the gentle tenor of conversation grabs his attention - a few hundred yards off, nestled expertly into the camouflage of shadows and green stalks - a mare lies on the ground, the familiar shape of Warrick looming protectively over her. Without thinking, Longclaw turns instinctively towards them, his strides lengthening to part the field as his heart begins to trip over itself. He can’t tear his eyes away (though he knows full and well the moment is a private one) and in that instant, the golden flicker of danger opposite them glints wildly in a glancing ray of morning sunlight.

Marigold was downwind (clever girl) and ready to strike.

Longclaw howls.