Bonesplinter Ravine i see the crimson thief, hanging on heartstrings

They are close, Declan is told by Arturo before he breaks off from the group for sentry duty. Tonight he does not take it with Conan. He lets his brother sleep. For a long moment he spends too much time watching his brother sleep. He looks peaceful, the handsome lines of his face smoothed out as he dreams. Declan wonders what he dreams of for a short moment before his gaze flickers to August who completes their strange little trio. He would much rather just be a duo as it has always been …but is plan to dump August off on Ceannasach had backfired in his face. Because he does not know what to do with her so he keeps her close, letting her intrigue fuel his unspoken curiosities until she lingers on that dangerous line between fascination and obsession. So long as she remains under his “care” she will never be rehabilitated — always a submissive little mouse. Little mouse. Yes, she is his little mouse.

He lets out a low grunt to himself, one of his three most used vocalizations — alongside huffs and snorts — as he pads through the dark ravine. Beneath his footfalls shattered bones of many splinter and crack and rattle ominously as he moves. Skeletons and more recent corpses litter the ravine like a poorly cared for graveyard. He examines a more recent corpse now: a goat, what flesh that is not picked clean by the scavengers is swollen with rot. He makes a deep hum in his throat as he sniffs at the saccharine scent of decay as it fills his black, leathery nostrils. The feral Cathán is filled with a small rush of thrill. He does not think Teaghlaigh is in danger from the living in this ravine. It is a haunt only meant for the dead but Declan would much rather patrol among the dead than be forced around the living given his discontent with Ceannasach.

The feral commander cares little for company outside his own brother but that is how he has always been and he sees not immediate change on the horizon. He relies upon Conan for many things in his life but mostly for being the buffer between the feral and the world that he does not entirely grasp. Declan is a beast of instinct, he operates on baser, primal things. He has no true need for words. They mean little to him. They were deceptive, hollow things. What good is word against action? Company does not elude him this night. Company beyond that of the dead, that is. He hears the footfalls and his head whips around to face the approaching male, with wild amber gaze seeking for a moment before it locks upon the earthen hued man. He is new to Teaghlaigh, Declan thinks. Or perhaps he is not. It is not as if Declan is overly social and pays much attention to who is new and who is established among The Family. It doesn’t much matter, anymore. Established members of The Family were liable to stab Ceannasach in the back repeatedly just as much as any new Comhlach was. This he has seen, has heard. So perhaps, he thinks, words are not all useless. A grunt of acknowledgment is given to the other male, as Declan wonders why he is out here in this hellish place. Was it to join the feral commander on his patrol? Or had curiosity gotten the better of him? But despite his desire to know these things he does not part his muzzle to give words to them.