[mature] like dreams that turn to dust,

[atrox]

hangman hooded, softly swinging; don't close the coffin yet, I'm alive

Atrox decides that he rather likes the guards that walk with him now.

They are not always the same. Sometimes, he finds that he grows bored with them, or annoyed, or just decides that he’s done with company—and whenever this happens, he is more than happy to send them back to the godforsaken place where he had escaped multiple times now. But, for now, he keeps them as he wanders around Beqanna. These two are rather large and, if he had any sense of insecurity, he would potentially feel insecure about his own modest height—but Atrox has never cared about such things.

Instead, he finds that their towering forms are rather useful.

They keep several paces behind him (silent always) as he moves through Beqanna, more active and more social than he has been in years. Perhaps it is the familiar taste of death that drives him from his usual interest in the shadows or perhaps it is the electric charge in the air that causes things to nearly taste of the old Beqanna. Whatever it is, he finds that he keeps moving, continues to pad along silently.

Until he catches the sight of her. It is distinctly her, despite the add-ons, and he tilts his head in thought, wondering if the same power that gave him this dark pull on the underworld gave her such radiant new clothing. Curious as always, his roguish grin spreads and he pads over toward her, shifting into his stallion form when he is several yards away and just in time to catch her muttering to herself.

It surprises a laugh from him, husky and rough, and he walks closer, shaking his head. “You won’t find anyone around here who’d argue that, Ryatah.” He grins, lips pulled wide as he stops near her. “You almost let me get fed to a pissed off cat back there.” He gestures toward the beach, thinking about the snow leopard mare, before pausing, “Well, another cat, I guess.” Then the grin is back, unshakeable.

An ear flicks back as he realizes that the two souls had stopped somewhat nearby, always irritable when he gave them no purpose or actionable way to help (which he rarely did). Rolling his eyes, he flicks a tail. “Get lost, you useless sacks of undead flesh.” And without further ceremony, they do.

When it is just the two of them, his yellow eyes sharpen on her.

“At risk of getting into a conversation I don’t truly care about, what has you so…pathetic looking.” He angles his head again as if trying to study her better. “You look better than you have in—well, ever.”

And what else could possibly have her down?

ATROX | THE PANTHER KING