The needle moves gracefully; Atrox, any

[atrox]

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

Hyaline is relatively quiet, and Atrox finds that suits him just find.

In his past lives he had been a warmonger, a soldier, a General—someone who had sought out the fight in every situation—but he does not jump so quickly to such results these days. Perhaps because he has grown more mild in his old age or perhaps because he has simply diverted his attention to more selfish motives. He has no Chamber to live and to die for now, after all. The heart that he had pledged to the land (that she had ripped from his chest and buried) was long gone and he was left with nothing but the scar.

Just a stallion from another time without a cause.

It leaves him dangerously bored on occasion, but he finds ways to occupy his time. Today, it was the promise of the hunt up the mountains of his lakeside home, tracking the small prey through the path of twisted trees. Or, rather, that’s what it was until he catches the scent of a stranger by the border. Annoyed, Atrox gives up the scent he had been tracking, stands up straighter and shakes the dust from his coat.

For a second, he pauses, eyes toward the border, nose twitching. He contemplates just ignoring the stranger there—he has no duty to anyone after all—but, eventually, curiosity gets the best of him.

He angles himself back down the mountain and makes his way toward the frosted stranger, only bothering to shift when he was several yards away. When he stands as a stallion, his yellow eyes are sharp and the black of his mane tangles and ropes down his thick neck. He stops when he is close enough to be heard, angling his heavy-jawed head to the side without bothering to mask his curiosity.

“Can I help you?”

ATROX | THE PANTHER KING