Lone Star Mountain In your eyes, there's a heavy blue.
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For Kerberos!

He had not eaten in days. Although far from dying of starvation, Talion felt as though he was fading away into nothing. Where previously he'd mostly been living off rodents and leftovers, seeking refuge among the mountains had given him even slimmer pickings. Desperate, considered seeking position with the Northstar Vale wolves, recalling the scent that had clung to the charcoal wolfess' pelt when he'd crossed paths with her in the cavern to the South the week before, but found the land to be absent of her pack by the time he'd arrived.

Assuming they'd dispersed, Talion continued through the mountains with wilted hope. It seemed more likely that he would die alone on the slopes of the Lone Star Mountain as he happened across dead end after dead end, being forced each time to re-trace his steps and seek different routes. Somewhere above, a bighorn sheep scrambled across scree in surprise at the wolf's presence and the yearling paused, lifting his crown to observe its struggle.

With luck finally on his side, the creature did not regain its footing. It wailed in shock as it slipped from a ledge and disappeared, its cries echoing over the territory until they were silenced by the heavy thud on the rocks several yards below. Talion was prompt to descend, salivating in anticipation at sinking his fangs into the flesh of an animal that would provide him for days, and could barely contain his excitement as he came upon the carcass with mindless hunger.

Blood swathed his muzzle, paws and throat as he helped himself, snarling at the crows who'd already begun to pick at the unfortunate ram's eyes and bloodied snout until they moved just out of reach to await their turn.
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It is the wail of terror, presumably from one of the rams — he’d seen and given a wide berth to two butting heads, their horns locked as they struggled for dominance over one another — that caught Kerberos’ attention. The ache of hunger is always present even when his belly is full from the fox he’d left little but skeleton and tough sinew left; the unyielding beckoning of Sos to treat himself or, better yet, slip to cannibalism exclusively. Sos does not care about society or it’s tendency to frown upon such acts. He does not care for moral high ground and the Dark Father’s hold is stronger than ever. Still, Kerberos denies him, denies that awful and terrible hunger that plagues every moment of his life: even in his dreams. He’d made his choice and willingly invited the devil in out of a necessity to survive and now …now there was no ridding himself of it. No going back. The thought that his child self would be horrified to know the monster he’s become is only enough to give the Aok slight pause. Things are so very different than they had been back then.

The Aok’s steps slow as he approaches: the sound of a snarl sends crows into the air with protesting cries and the sound of tearing flesh and ravenous eating resumes. The lone mountain looms as bleak and forlorn as the surrounding territory and cautiously Kebreros shrugs through the underbrush, sea-green eyes finding the wolf that tears into the carcass of the ram — no doubt the source of the wail he heard moments earlier. Kerberos lifts his muzzle to drawn in the scents, to drink in the pungent, metallic scent of blood and flesh. He’s no interest in the younger boy’s kill — he’s about the age of Kerberos’ youngest ( living ) children; the les enfants terribles ( though they are not so much children anymore, he surmirses absently ). The terrible trio, though, aptly named now when once it had been an affectionate nickname bestowed upon the three. “You should slow down when you eat. Else you’ll make yourself sick.” Kerberos isn’t sure if the younger male is aware of his presence before that moment or not but he offers his advice as he lingers with plenty of distance between them to signify that the ram holds no interest to him.
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He is ravenous. Talion rips tough hide from flesh, meat from bones, thoroughly gorges on his feast surely fit for a King. He focuses on nothing but his fierce hunger, which has ached is his abdomen for what felt like ages, at times rousing concern that his stomach might well be consuming itself. Although he hadn't crossed paths with anyone in days, Talion is eager to feed as quickly as possible, for he has no indication of what other creature may be crossing the barren mountain on which he'd found the unfortunate young ram.

Around him, crows continue to gather. A sharp jerk of his muzzle to free a strip of meat sends a splattering of blood to his left, and the birds bicker among themselves as they peck at the crimson droplets on the rocks. The hungry wolf pays them no heed, not caring as they caw in outrage at one another, but it is a voice above their squawking that manages to ensnare the sterling yearling's attention.

He swings his proud head to glower over a skinny black shoulder, wild blue eyes finding the sandy features of another lone male, and his bloodied lips curl back to reveal an impressive set of fangs. A gurgled snarl accompanies this display, ears laced back among the obsidian of his nape, determination to defend his meal burning in his cold irises. This unknown wolf, however, simply observes him from a distance, maintaining space between them to signify that he has no interest in claiming the carcass at his paws.

The young Roux-Abrhen's teeth are sheathed upon realization, and he took the time to study the stranger at his backwith suspicion. His expressed remained cool, his gaze never straying from the sea-green orbs that peered back at him. "Who are you?" Talion asked, fully aware that the other wolf was older and larger than him, and could easily overpower him if he truly wanted the meal for himself. Although still very much on edge, he allowed his muscles to slacken somewhat as he considered this.
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The crows squabble and fight amongst themselves for even the smallest crumb of carrion from the carcass that the younger male feasts upon like a starving beast. Kerberos understands all too well …in a way. He, too, is ravenous for what he’s denied himself, what he’s denied Sos despite that his stomach is contented. He’s not hungry but …he is. The Aok’s fascination with the devouring of flesh and meat before him is repulsive. He knows it. Knows that he should be feel repulsed by his own being and yet knowing and acknowledging is not the same thing as feeling and that he is absent of. He should be but he is not. It’s not his kill, it’s not his feast and yet he feels the same sort of euphoria at simply watching it that he wants to be sick but he’s not. He’s beyond that now. Sos wins each daily battle, inch by inch. The Dark Father is patient and Atka has lost her disciple long ago. Kerberos clings to her like a child clings to a security blanket: terrified of the darkness that is Sos. It’s not enough. The boy bears his teeth at Kerberos and the cannibal keeps his expression neutral, unfazed. He has stared at the teeth of a beast so much worse than this boy’s. He’s seen things so much more terrible and infinitely worse than death. Eternal suffering in Sos’ collection of tormented souls. Not something that is easily forgotten.

Kerberos watches as the boy’s teeth eventually sheath but the periwinkle gaze of the younger man is not wavering as it meets the sea-green of the Aok’s own. “I am Kerberos. Kerberos Aok.” He introduces himself, noting how the name sounds different as it rolls from his lips now. Perhaps, Kerberos thinks, it’s because he is no longer so different from his namesake: the guardian of the underworld. A name given to him by the sea, by Aktaie. It’s all he has of his biological mother. It’s all he’s ever had of her. “What is your name?” Kerberos returns, wondering what it is the ravenous boy calls himself with an unbidden note of unabashed interest in his tone and expression.
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There is newfound strength and confidence within Talion, who stares at the older wolf with cold, calculating blue eyes. Hunger and the incredible need to protect his bounty is what gifts him this sense of security, though he knows full well he'd definitely have cowered out of sight had the newcomer been female. He is a terrible sight: vivid scarlet smears the alabaster of his muzzle and throat, swathes his chest and lower limbs, an almost manic glint in his sharp gaze. And yet, the stranger remains entirely neutral. He watches the peppered yearling quietly, and Talion probably would've found the whole situation a bit creepy if he were of his right mind.

The golden-pelted brute offered his title, and the young loner pricked an obsidian ear in curiosity. "Κέρβερος," he repeats in a familiar tongue, the first time he has spoken his mother's language in months. Although not fluent, the first words Talion had ever heard had been Greek, and to hear a name of its mythology both intrigued and terrified him at the same time. "The hell-hound," he said, recalling his father's teaching when he was a child and desperate to learn of the Nereides' background; "who guards the gates of the underworld." It is quite a moniker. Talion had been nameless throughout his first few months of life, dubbed merely "Vex" by the dam who despised him simply for being alive. Notturno had gifted the boy his true name, Talion, upon arrival to the male's quarters, a calling that bore no connection to his mother's lineage. "I am Talion Roux-Abrhen," he said, turning his frame to better look upon his latest acquaintance, and as he moved the crows swarmed the exposed flesh of the ram to pluck strips of meat in a frenzy of tearing and squawking. He kicks out at them with a hind limb, sending them scurrying and flapping out of reach again, and backed up to linger protectively over the dead ram while the birds glared at him from every direction.
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sorry about the wait on this! :-(

Kerberos has never been well versed in Greek — an unfortunate consequence of him being sent to live with the Kesuk’s in Shearwater Bay — he became more Kesuk than he had ever and would ever be Nereides…or whatever the male version of their surname was. He honestly didn’t know. He knows of his mother, of his sisters, of the culture they live in but beyond that he has no recollection of them at all. They are names of ghosts to him. “That’s right,” Kerberos replies smoothly, giving a small nod of his head. He is, at least, familiar with the origins and meaning of his name: knows what he was named for and in hindsight of his recent life choices thinks that there was no more accurate foreshadowing. He was always destined for this darkness, in the end. Aktaie had made sure of it by naming him for the hell-hound. So a hell-hound I have become. It wasn’t his intentions, but even the best of intentions can easily become skewed and twisted to become terrible. All too easily.

He introduces himself with a name that Kerberos recognizes faintly from Seahawk Valley. It’s an old name …a surname of a different era. He cannot recall if he’s ever met any of this boy’s family members — that was such a very long time ago now — but the name sparks remembrance in him of a by-gone era all the same. “A familiar name. I don’t recall ever meeting any of your family though the last time I heard it has been long ago now.” It was truly a small world, or perhaps the families of the Seahawk Valley have simply multiplied and branched out and expanded beyond those boundaries. He was getting old. When did that happen? It felt like he was a small, sullen child hanging around the shores of Shearwater Bay and with a mere blink of an eye he was almost six years of age.
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The sandy male confirmed the meaning behind his name with a dip of his head, and a smile tugged at the peppered yearling's two-toned features as he rose his proud crown. There had been a time when, as a young boy, Talion had longed to integrate himself among the Nereides. He'd studied their faith fervently, learned to love the Mother Sea and Mother Moon, despite the disapproval of the she-wolves and the discouragement of his father. His persistence never paid off, as he was forced by the priestess' to recognise that, as a spawn, Talion could never be one of them. Heartbroken, he returned to being a shadow: out of sight, out of mind, and silent until spoken to.

Kerberos looked at him, a spark of familiarity in his bright eyes, and Talion's anxiety begins to creep up on him. Did he know his father, from another time? Notturno had told tales of his own birthplace, of the family he'd left behind there, how the Mother Sea had tried to claim him and the Nereides had saved him from Her grasp in exchange for his alliance. He'd been one of the first consorts to settle at Astarte Strand, and no other had bested him for his position of Epivitoras. Unlike Talion, Notturno had lived there comfortably. He was respected. Wanted

His body tenses noticeably, and he braces himself. Raven guard hairs rise to stand on edge along his dorsal and an ear is canted back, uncertainty bright in his frosty eyes. "How? Talion asked, anxiously trailing his salmon-pink tongue across an upper lip. "From where?"
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The shift in the boy’s body language is noticeable to the Aok who studies him with muted curiosity, filing away that Talion’s family name is familiar to him had made the boy nervous. Kerberos supposes that in another life he might have understood: to have a stranger say that the family name rings bells of familiarity might be a little anxiety inducing. The Kerberos of this new era, however, does not sympathize with it. He is a middle-aged man and he’s been around, has met a lot of wolves. “I grew up in Seahawk Valley,” Kerberos speaks unsure if this young man would recognize the name or not. “I remember the Roux-Abrhen family being a dominate name in those regions alongside the DeMontes, my adoptive family, Kesuk,” Kerberos explains, dusting off things that he has not thought about in quite some time. It’s been a long time since he’s last been in Seahawk and this information is otherwise old and irrelevant. Yet, Kerberos believes it’s important to remember where you came from. “…and my mother’s name Nereides.” Kerberos does not even remember much of Aktaie anymore, though he supposes he resembles her physically ( with a bit of Lecter thrown in ). She has long been little more than a legend to the once spawn. Sea green eyes study the younger male carefully then, tail brushing against his hocks, ears cupping forth atop his skull observantly as Kerberos awaits his reaction to the information that he's chosen to share with Talion still hesitant about whether the boy would recognize any of it.