Lion Head Mesa i found a catalyst for disaster in you

The mount is unlike any that Kahl can claim he’s seen before. He’s seen numerous mountains in his (short) life but this one appeared to be flat at the top. It’s peak does not stretch towards the heavens forever denied. Rather, it is almost as if it is content with the knowledge that it will never touch that which it is denied. He, too, has been denied something that belongs to him. She is forever denied to him; but Kahl cannot remember her. Not properly. He has twisted and manipulated his own memories until what came before Nyx and Blackfeather Woods is a lie but a lie he has told himself so many times that it has become his truth. The Tundrian is restless, though. Seeking that which is missing from him. He only feels it is a she because that is as nature dictates. He grows and sometimes he aches from the continuous grow of bones. He grows taller, broader and slowly the baby fat has begun to melt away. Kahlil will always be a hefty beast but with Tundrian muscle instead if pudge.

The cherub is morphing into something indefinitely much more deadly.

Kahlil moves through the dry grass and spindly trees: the small pond of what was once a lake all that is left for the summer heats have dried it all up otherwise. Soon, he suspects, there will be no water left in the receded lake bed. He prowls along earth cracked and dry shaped by the flow of water to what remains of the lake, dipping his head to sate his thirst, holding fast to the most important thing he has learned: that all things must change and must adapt or else they would not survive and cease to exist. Umbra dusted ear flicks lazily, as if shooing off a bothersome fly but the soturi listens, alert for any sign of approach.

Having made his way through the mountains and into the far-reaches of the valley on the other side, Murdock began to wonder if he oughtn't head back the direction he'd come to see about joining one of the several pack he'd passed by. After the first one that'd impeded his progress through the mountains, the male had come across two more. The first had been lacking in ways similar to the first - plenty of women, but plenty of children as well. Still, he'd considered it an option, unlike the second pack he'd come across. Their borders had smelled like death and terror, and Murdock didn't have time for either of those things.

But the journey had been awful long, and his paws were gettin' to be awfully sore. He was panting when he came upon the murky waters where a pale child was also standing, and so ignored the boy until his own thirst was satisfied.

Licking droplets of water from his chin, the male turned his two-toned eyes to the smaller wolf. He did not normally like to associate with or even speak to children this young, but though the male was a consummate ass, he wasn't completely heartless. "Whatchya doing out here, kid?" he asked, his voice gruff from several days of disuse. "Don'chya know it's dangerous to be out all alone?"

The soturi’s hackles bristled at his soot dusted cape as the lone stranger approaches but does not pull back from his drink until is thirst is sated because he was here first. When he does lift his muzzle and swipes his salmon pink tongue across his jowls to collected the stray droplets of water the young satopäällikkö regards the male — dappled in a pelage a collection of dull browns and blondes — with apathetic glacial gaze when the man calls him kid. Kid. Though it is effectively what Kahlil is the tundrian hates the word. “That’s none of your business,” Kahl points out. Dangerous. Now that was funny. The word no longer holds the same kind of power it once had over Kahl. He grows by the day, the pudge of puphood melting and hardened into hardened muscle whether this is the beginnings of puberty or his own make as he trains to earn the warrior specialty. He’s already earned the mercenary trade at almost four months of age — could any of the other children claim such a feat? “Danger and I are old friends.” The tundrian speaks in a low rumble, drawing his salmon pink tongue across his jowls once more. Kahlil is not as helpless as his age would have others believe: and this makes him the perfect thespian; but today he has no interest in playing roles. He is still festering with restlessness and he is at a loss at how to rid himself of it.

Murdock held back his snort, but only just barely. Probably he shouldn't have bothered, because the kid could probably tell he was laughing on the inside even without the telltale sound. Unlike Khalil, Murdock had never put much effort into hiding his emotions.

"Ain't nothin' on you that's old," he said in the self-assured way of a man to a boy. Tell me more about old when your balls drop, he thought, holding back a snicker. He'd never had much to do with children, save for his two failed litters all those years ago, but he was sure that all kids would be just as theatric as this one. "I've eaten wolves bigger than you," he added, wondering if the child could be goaded into a tussle. Though he didn't normally expend much energy asserting himself over others, he felt as though the boy could stand to be taken down a peg or two - maybe then he'd realize he wasn't the baddest cat around.

There is a narrow of pupils within their pools of glacial blue as Khal eyes the adult who barely holds back his snort of laughter. The soturi pulls himself up to his full height, ears slicking back against his skull in a unbidden display of annoyance as his maned chest puffs in what will (some day) become a display of intimidation. “It’s a metaphor,” The tundrian states simply, detached but with a distinct hint of patronization to his rasping tone. Khal is interested in a pissing contest, especially not with an adult who thinks he needs to point out something that is obvious to him and then try to frighten him. “I hope that’s not meant to scare me,” because it didn’t work. Salmon pink tongue slides across his jowls and rows of sharp teeth are revealed for a brief moment as his upper lip curls and then smooths back over his arsenal. “Don’t you have anything better to do than to lurk around children trying to scare them with boasted feats of cannibalism?” The tundrian asks the stranger coolly. Perhaps, Khal thinks, it is enough to scare other children but he has never been like other children and this stranger would have to do a lot better than that.

A metaphor. Murdock was sure he'd never bothered with metaphors, when he'd been at an age with this boy. That was normal, though - most wolves were cleverer than Murdock had been in his youth. Still, he wasn't sure he liked the tone the kid was taking with him. He'd been talked down to often enough in his life, but never by someone so young. He'd only been trying to help, after all - Well. Until he'd begun trying to pick a fight.

This time, the male really did snort - but it was directed more at himself than the boy. "I'm not the scarin' kind," said Murdock, correcting the boy's assumption. He was too lazy to be scary. A smart wolf would still look at his large frame with consideration, but almost never with fear. He was long past his days of cannibalism, after all - though he still had a penchant for causing trouble. "It's called trash-talkin'. It's how you pick fights," he explained, tired of trying to goad the boy and deciding to go the more direct route. "Now, it sounds to me like you've got somethin' to prove - or at least a bit of anger to work out of your tiny little body. Let's see how well you do against me, huh?"

A small snort leaves Khal’s black, leathery nostrils as the older man states that he isn’t the scaring kind and perhaps that is true, the soturi thinks but that does not mean that would Khal was not the sort of youth that he was, that the thought of being eaten might have scared any other child. Or perhaps, they, too would not be so bothered by it. Khal has a streak of narcissism in him and combined with an unshakable confidence that does not always spell good things for him. In teaghaligh the enok tundra there were no consequences for this but the world outside of his birth place was less kind and catering to young wolves. Yet, even so, even knowing this, the tundrian holds to the belief that the second he doubts himself, the second he is dead. There is no room for doubt and thus the door for death remains firmly closed.

“If you wanted a fight all you had to do was ask, old man,” Khal grins and the lift of his lips in a manner reveals his teeth. “I’ll never turn down a friendly spar and a chance to improve.” And as much as he hates to admit it losing is all apart of the process of making himself better. A fighter that wins all the time will never improve; but Khal has a trick up his sleeve: he has the warrior apprenticeship and training behind him. For once, he does not boast of it because he thinks there will be something satisfying about showing that he isn’t as inexperienced or helpless as it is likely first perceived of one as young as him.

He tucks his muzzle down to protect his throat as he circles the man once. “Elderly go first.” He is picking, now. How did the older man put it? Trash talking. Which is sort of just like being an asshole without it being warranted and Khal cannot help but think it’s kind of fun.

Murdock wagged his tail, a sheepish expression crossing his face. The boy was right, he supposed - he should've just asked. But he still wished the kid would've made the first move. Murdock rarely felt the need to attack other first, and so, his skills were at their finest when he started off on the defensive. Making the first move never worked out the way you wanted it to.

"Fair enough, pipsqueak," he shot back, baring his teeth in mock-threat. He made a feinting lunge toward the younger male, hoping he could still be goaded into making the first true strike.

i went ahead and did dice rolls for their spar here. i kept it at 3 rounds since drogon is a bebe and I feel like would tire pretty easily. :0 (tbh i expected him to get his booty handed to him) to make this easy since they both got awkward rolls the first time: drogon attacks so murdock can defend; murdock can then attack and you can ppc drogon dodging it & then have murdock attack again so i can start round two with my next post since drogon's roll was another dodge (hopefully that sentance made sense, lol).

Pipsqueak. Black, leathery nostrils flare in true hatred of the insult; but he remembers the words of those whom had taught him thus far in his life: as varied as they were. Do not attack aggressively. Aggression could be a fuel but blind aggression would lose the fight every time. He is tundrian and they are skilled soturi not enraged bulls. More trash talk, Drogon thinks but despite his best attempts the tundrian is a vain beast and he finds insult: like salt rubbed deliberately in a fresh wound to fester beneath his skin. He will be the greatest soturi one day; a warlord of legends but first, first there is a lot of work between the present and that desired future. Glacial gaze watches as the male feigns towards him and Drogon falls for it only to feel the smart of humiliation when he realizes and lunges forward with every intention of sinking his teeth into the male’s shoulder as recompense.

Oh, okay. If it's okay with you, then, I'm going to go ahead and have Murdock go easy on him. Despite Drogon's merc trade, I feel like it's unlikely a four-month-old would win against a large, adult male in a real fight.

It seemed that, despite his own recreational use of 'trash talk', the kid didn't like it being used against him very much. Murdock wagged his tail, bowing forward to show that he wasn't mocking, just teasing - only to have the white puffball fly at him with flashing teeth. The male reared back, though he still felt tiny teeth clip his shoulder, and reacted instinctively by lunging back in turn. He remembered himself enough to keep his mouth closed, and merely rammed his muzzle in the direction of the boy's neck.

His surprise at the child's aggression and his own attempts at being gentle lent the other enough time to dodge the attack. His muzzle missed its mark, and Murdock scrambled back to give the other some space, his tail still wagging to reassure the boy of his friendliness.

that's fine, but mostly his rolls were all dodges so, ahaha, i'm not sure if that can actually be called "winning". xD ending round one
edit. you get my 100th post c:

His teeth clip against Murdock’s shoulder but his attack is otherwise defended as Drogon shoots past the man. The soturi whirls quick, knowing better than to have his spine exposed, glad that while his youth does not yet give him the advantage of brawn — though he is no small child; he is long legged and his pudge and softness of childhood has begun to harden into solid muscle from training and honing his body into a lethal weapon — he afforded speed in brute force’s stead (something he will not have for long and thus deigns to make the most of). The older male lunges forward with an attack and Drogon tucks his muzzle close to his throat, to protect it, bracing himself only to throw his weight sharply to the left at the last second, dodging the attack. The other male scrambles back and waves his tail in a friendly manner. This is a lesson, a spar and though it this spar is amiable Drogon takes his training very seriously. Drogon wants to be the best, after all. He does not rush forth, nor attack again. It is Murdock’s turn to attack first, to initiate the second round.

Murdock didn't really understand what was going on with the kid. Perhaps his teasing had been taken to heart after all? Murdock knew he wasn't the easiest fellow to get along with.

"It's just a game, kiddo," he reiterated. "Don'cha know how to play?"

The male lunged once more, moving with almost exaggerated care to nose-boop the boy on the shoulder. He did not dart back, this time, but crowded the child in an attempt to get some kind of reaction other than caution and irritation from him.

last post for me & dro. feel free to post once more or archive as is.

Kahlil let out a low huff of unbridled frustration with the adult reiterates that it’s a game — no, the tundrian counters in his head, I don’t want a game. I want a spar. Even if it meant losing, he wanted a spar. He didn’t want to play. He wanted to work off the restless energy that prowls in him, the aggression and the grief. He wants to hon his skills. He wants to be taken seriously but it’s become insultingly obvious to the warlord in training that this man thinks of him as some squeaking infant. A warning snarl tears itself from the boy’s lips as the adult boops him on the shoulder and crowds him. “Back the fuck off,” he half hisses, half snarls. He considers laying his very real, very sharp teeth in the adult’s flesh but refrains because the second he does he suspects he will be met with retaliation and no he could not take Murdock in a real fight. At best, Kahlil could dodge his attacks but he doubts it would be enough.

Kahlil doesn’t want to be treated like a kid because mentally he hasn’t been a kid for some time, and he feels indefinite frustration that such is the first instinct of adults. He ceased being a kid the day of the incident; because his survival depended upon shedding childish innocence and naivety. Kill the boy so the man can be born. Far too soon, but it couldn’t be helped. “I don’t want to play with you.” The soturi spits after taking his own command and backs away. When he is sure the man won’t follow him he turns and heads to a different territory, not immediately returning to Blackfeather Woods to throw off his trail …just in case.