She sells seashells by the sea shore // Laura pony

[atrox]

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

He doesn’t say much more, even as she does. At her implication that he is afraid, he angles his head, some kind of amusement playing around his features and then sinking into the midnight of his coat once more. Atrox has been called many things in his life—murderer, warmonger, General, King—but afraid is not one of them. Were he a lesser man, perhaps his hackle would rise at the insinuation, but he has always been confident—arrogant, even. A flaw, perhaps, but he’s never sought to change his ways.

So he instead enjoys being silent, watching her, not reacting in anyway.

He studies her, curious about the way she moves as though she is irresistible—and, perhaps, to most she would be. She certainly was not the most hideous thing he had ever seen, but he had never been one to feel heat pool his belly at the sight of fins. Still, he had an appetite that was never quite sated and she did not completely fold beneath his barbs, so he at least gave her the benefit of the doubt and his attention.

When she reacts to the souls behind him, he finally makes a noise and it is low, smoky laughter. His yellow eyes dance with amusement as he angles a head to see the two. They were more of the foreboding ones he had called forth so far, but he had seen worse in both this life and the one behind the veil.

Turning his head back to her, he drawls lazily, “I doubt you could do much damage, seeing as they are dead.” Yawning, he stretches out, clawed paws digging into the earth, before he shifts into his more natural equine form. He shakes when the transition is complete, the tangled, matted mane falling heavy on both sides of a naturally curved neck, his wide-jawed head angled as his yellow eyes remain on her.

“I would love to see you try though.”

ATROX | THE PANTHER KING