Nobility did not come easy; no, its arrival was tenuous and harrowing. Litotes had to work for it, through diplomatic relations and his own true intentions: nobility came but she certainly did not make it easy. He toys with the idea, regal and well-sculpted Akhal Teke head raised to its highest point. Him? Royal, kingly, wise? He blinks, one subtle grunt rumbling in the back of his throat. i don't want your pity, i just want somebody near me
He feels hundreds of years older than he was weeks ago - thousands, even.
In fact, the Primarch has not really spoken in a week or so. Not since the holiday party with Kensa, not since -
Not since she told me she is pregnant.
He grunts again, golden eyes darkening with the weight of it all: The East, Hyaline, Kensa, his future child. My future child. Lie stops now, digging a single sharp hoof into the damp sand, imagining the ground is the plague. The cool ocean breeze whisks around his ears, cruel - infuriating. His ears press into the fluff of his mane as he throws his muzzle to the sky, a guttural (enraged) cry flying from the bottom of his chest and out his outstretched maw.
The fury is short-lived: a coughing fit shudders his whole body, spattering bright crimson blood over his lips. He knows not what to do - briefly wishing Rune could harass him into calming - so he succumbs to the predatory instinct and shifts to his feline form.
Saltwater crashes against his legs as he races through the waves, soaked paws slapping against the cerulean and white as if it were inconsequential. He thinks as he races, most thoughts broken as the drive of a predator begins to invade his already fragile mind. Kensa - sick - pregnant - not safe. The bottom of Lie’s mane sprays water when he shakes his head, ridding himself of the worry with that last visceral action.
Lion-man is what she called me. She was so hesitant.
The irony. He does not care - not now.
Little light-hearted Litotes - a boy now a king, spited by the fear of others and his own that he cannot escape. A third grunt, but now more a growl, throaty and hungry as it drips from his lips.
It is her glowing red form that draws his attention, so small . . . so vulnerable. Feline eyes droop to slits, mouth dropping open to drink the smell of her blood: so hot and fresh, enticing. He stops, agile limbs curving to hold his body as it drifts to brush his belly against the sand. His glowing, terrifyingly instinctive gaze holds her in place as she walks up the beach - one paw stretched forward, then another . . . she smells like . . .
The Primarch comes to, violently shaking his head while standing up rigidly straight. He looks down at his claws pummeling the watery sand, their rapid flexing like a silent begging to tear into flesh. His gaze wanders back up to the filly.
He can't leave her alone, especially now. Especially after I was going to fucking eat her.
Lie pads up to the child, uttering a soft hello from the distance so as not to startle her. He does not bother to shift back to equine, sensing that the girl will not be too terribly startled.
“What are you doing? Does your mother live here?”
guess i'm a coward, i just want to feel all right
@[Ember]
