He is agitated and unwary, and he does not notice Aela's quiet approach, does not feel her press into the wild memories running circles around themselves in the dark corridors of his mind. When she speaks, he flinches, flaring his wings and snaking his neck out into the space between them with a wolfish snap of his jaws.
Back off.
Even when he sees her, he doesn't. There's a red haze across his vision, there's his mother's teeth buried in his wing and a dozen blood-red Neverwheres in a dozen tumbling scarlet Taigan copses. There's a crimson filly with an iron-grip and the scent of mud and blood and sweat and the sea-bright Nerine wind howling in her ears. Wherewolf is ready to throw himself at Aela again, ready to crash into her and use his weight to bring them both down in a pile of twisted and breaking bones, but when he steps forward there's no scent of heather or pine, only the sweet-musk smell of fading flowers whispering in the air and it jars against the snarl of his memory.
He's in the Pampas. The ferocity of his face becomes confusion and he blinks at the Seneschal dazedly before, at last, registering her words and scowling. His ears flicker then pin back and his wings rustle themselves into order again before settling restlessly on his back, the feathers trembling. The gaze that finally settles on Neverwhere's broken body is withering and unforgiving - and unapologetic.
"Yes."
The word is little more than a hiss. It does not matter to him how she came to be young again. Magic, irony, most likely it is both. He does not know why Neverwhere would have threatened to kill him, and then did not, but she should have done it when she had the chance. Those livid green eyes turn back to Aela full of bloody curiousity.
"How many times do you think she can come back?"
Back off.
Even when he sees her, he doesn't. There's a red haze across his vision, there's his mother's teeth buried in his wing and a dozen blood-red Neverwheres in a dozen tumbling scarlet Taigan copses. There's a crimson filly with an iron-grip and the scent of mud and blood and sweat and the sea-bright Nerine wind howling in her ears. Wherewolf is ready to throw himself at Aela again, ready to crash into her and use his weight to bring them both down in a pile of twisted and breaking bones, but when he steps forward there's no scent of heather or pine, only the sweet-musk smell of fading flowers whispering in the air and it jars against the snarl of his memory.
He's in the Pampas. The ferocity of his face becomes confusion and he blinks at the Seneschal dazedly before, at last, registering her words and scowling. His ears flicker then pin back and his wings rustle themselves into order again before settling restlessly on his back, the feathers trembling. The gaze that finally settles on Neverwhere's broken body is withering and unforgiving - and unapologetic.
"Yes."
The word is little more than a hiss. It does not matter to him how she came to be young again. Magic, irony, most likely it is both. He does not know why Neverwhere would have threatened to kill him, and then did not, but she should have done it when she had the chance. Those livid green eyes turn back to Aela full of bloody curiousity.
"How many times do you think she can come back?"
@Aela
