10-11-2021, 09:36 PM
The keening of the wyvern as he gnawed through its wing had been as inconsequential to the dark haired boy as the crash of waves against the cliffs. Prey always cried out, but Malik has never paid much attention to it. Focused on retrieving the prize, the boy had not seen his mother wince, and Malik does not yet know this face of hers well enough to read the sadness as she questions him.
He’d expected either a yes or a no, and his own feline face frowns at her first question, and his head tilts at her second.
“I’m not hungry.” He replies, but the words are hesitant. His tone is cautious, the strangeness of the question making him feel off kilter. Hungry? Why would that matter? The wyvern has been defeated; its life is forfeit. It is too big to be a pet, and it’s not as though he can take it home to show Myrna the way he plans to take one of the catfish kittens when he visits Ischia.
Malik’s gaze has turned back to the wyvern as his mother digs her claws into it, and he realizes that he’s not answered her first question. His bicolored eyes return to hers quickly, and they are wary only for a moment. Even though he does not know this face he does not see anger or impatience on its scaled surface, and he realizes that she wants a real answer, wants it enough to not lose her temper even if he is slow to answer.
“To know that I can.” He finally says, his gaze having once more travelled to the wyvern. He looks at the wing where he’d torn the claw free, and there is no empathy in his gaze as he looks at the blood, just luridly bright curiosity.
“So I can be stronger. Better.” He nods at this, thinking of the fairies, of the quest they’d sent him on. He had not hidden himself from them, but perhaps they had not realized what he might become if given all the strength that he seeks. He is only the product of his raising after all, of a (second) childhood spent seeking the attention of parents who smelled always of blood and death and anger. Hunting was something that the boy could do, and something that they enjoyed.
“Why do you want to kill it?” Is there a better reason? He has seen her eyes light up in near-red pleasure at a kill before, and as he meets her gaze now finds only the warm orange rather than the burning red. She has been his mother in every way that matters since Myrna’s arrival, but as he licks his lips and tastes the sour blood of the winged reptile, he feels inexplicably uncertain.
@Mazikeen
He’d expected either a yes or a no, and his own feline face frowns at her first question, and his head tilts at her second.
“I’m not hungry.” He replies, but the words are hesitant. His tone is cautious, the strangeness of the question making him feel off kilter. Hungry? Why would that matter? The wyvern has been defeated; its life is forfeit. It is too big to be a pet, and it’s not as though he can take it home to show Myrna the way he plans to take one of the catfish kittens when he visits Ischia.
Malik’s gaze has turned back to the wyvern as his mother digs her claws into it, and he realizes that he’s not answered her first question. His bicolored eyes return to hers quickly, and they are wary only for a moment. Even though he does not know this face he does not see anger or impatience on its scaled surface, and he realizes that she wants a real answer, wants it enough to not lose her temper even if he is slow to answer.
“To know that I can.” He finally says, his gaze having once more travelled to the wyvern. He looks at the wing where he’d torn the claw free, and there is no empathy in his gaze as he looks at the blood, just luridly bright curiosity.
“So I can be stronger. Better.” He nods at this, thinking of the fairies, of the quest they’d sent him on. He had not hidden himself from them, but perhaps they had not realized what he might become if given all the strength that he seeks. He is only the product of his raising after all, of a (second) childhood spent seeking the attention of parents who smelled always of blood and death and anger. Hunting was something that the boy could do, and something that they enjoyed.
“Why do you want to kill it?” Is there a better reason? He has seen her eyes light up in near-red pleasure at a kill before, and as he meets her gaze now finds only the warm orange rather than the burning red. She has been his mother in every way that matters since Myrna’s arrival, but as he licks his lips and tastes the sour blood of the winged reptile, he feels inexplicably uncertain.
@Mazikeen