He’d easily misheard the snap of the twig as part of the rustling brambles and broken debris of the forest, his wide eyes eagerly searching the darkening forest around him as he quickly realizes he is far too alone and far too far to try to head back to Tephra. A whine of dismay perhaps would have warbled in his throat if the sound of a voice - “Oops!” - did not suddenly become out of place amongst the windy forest night. The boy snorts sharply, his exhale of breath bold and white as it propels from his black nostrils, lifting from his mouth to disappear into quickly into the air. His black-tipped ears press into the mixture of white and black of his growing mane, curving his neck in an attempt to appear more menacing than he actually was. Slender ivory legs turn him around carefully, peering into the depths of darkness with less fright now and with more purpose. The howl of the wind is forgotten as his ocean-stained eyes sweeps the forest, lifting his nostrils to sniff at the cold air that shuffles around him.
“I’m not afraid,” he announces into the nothingness (he is sure his voice did not quake), though he cannot be sure if he is talking about the situation at hand or the one that plagues his mind without ceasing (the volcano, his father’s blood, his mother’s fret). He felt like it must be announced to this utter blackness and solitude that he isn’t afraid, because if he speaks it perhaps it would actually become true. “I’m not afraid of you,” He repeats his phrase except with an added clause (pointedly naming the voice in the only way he could), louder this time and with more aggravation in his voice, but the nothingness does not respond. He exhales briskly, almost in frustration, as he quietly takes a few steps forward. “I heard you,” he then says into the wind, his tail flicking against his mahogany flank.
Moments pass and though the voice he had heard seems to have no source, he figures he must find the owner for if he didn’t, he would perhaps begin thinking of ghosts and ominous demons haunting the forest - and he mustn’t think of that.
Warden lowers his head, ears still pressed against his neck (yet less forceful now), wrinkling his nose thoughtfully.
“Come out, or I will hunt you down myself.”
It’s what he would tell his father’s disease, if he had the courage to do so. Perhaps the demon who put the sickness in his father's lungs is here, searching for him next, ready to sink its teeth into him and curse him just like it had cursed his father. The boy bristles at the thought, the tension in his body now returning and replacing the youthful curiosity that had found his eyes only moments ago.
WARDEN
i am the sword in the darkness.
@[Nutkin]
