Blackfeather Woods hang your head upon my throne

all welcome! someone could come try and steal his offering ;D

He has his eyes set on a particular title; Speaker. His thirst is undeniable, calling out to him from the depths of his desires like the beckoning song of a siren. The source of this hunger is riddled in his reservations, in jadded accusations of the un-pure reeking their mark on a world that is not theirs. A world that is his, and his only. Walking out towards the grove of red, the tomb of his grandmother, he drags the carcass of a moderately-sized ground animal in his jaw. It is an offering in the closest location he knows that is connected to the higher powers they praise; siphoned directly from the bones of the Eternal Queen. It's blood seeps, camoflauging into the ground below, and he drops the beast from his hold; satisfied with his work. The storm of rocks cast down from the heavens in the awe-terrifying rage of their gods and goddesses is only the begining, he concludes, and steps back, turning to leave with his tribute in place.

As part of her duties as priestess, she tended to the sacred places of the Woods: the Nightcaller Temple and her mother's grave. She cleaned them, removing any debris, and with her mother's grave, she cleaned the skull and bones, making them shine in the moonlight. She kept her comings and goings subtle, to add to the illusion that they were simply preserved like this by the gods will, but even she knew that the gods were not that interested in cleanliness.

She walked to the Redgrove, damp moss in maw. She paid little attention to the crows and ravens overhead, having always been used to their presence. It seemed to be a normal day, just a part of the routine, but a familiar scent wafted to her, mingled with blood. Alarm took her at first, and she quickened her steps to reach him, the fear that she thought had faded from her children's youth returning. But as she grew close it subsided, the blood not his, but that of an animal.

Vaati, She called to the boy with a smile, placing the moss down to free her mouth. It was not often that she found offerings not her own, and it made her proud that her children truly appreciated the gods she taught them to worship.

It is a little known fact that he adores his mother. She is perfection personified; the image he identifies as the worthy, the deserving faction of the dark woods that he decides fit to inherit the legacy of the night mother. She is everything to him, the one above all else, and he worships the ground she walks on. He leans into her as she calls to him, nipping at the underside of her muzzle in an uncharacteristic display of affection. "Mother." He greets, before pulling away to look back at his offering., indicating to its presence upon the grounds of his grandmother's grave. "Perhaps the gods will favour me," The remark comes with a cruel amusement, referring to a rivalry that his mother is presently unaware of. Kahlil and Neo, and the disrepect they bring. It is only a matter of time before they are rectified, and their trial is brought upon them; their gods will not take favour over them and their falseness than the blood of Melonii. At least, that is what he chooses to believe.

She leans into the hug, kissing her eldest son on his forehead with a gentle swipe of her tongue as she had when he was a young, wriggling pup. He was quickly growing into the visage of the man who she had met near the shore what seemed like so long ago. Vaati, She rumbles back, before their bodies untwined and they both turned to the skull before them. What did you ask?

His mother is presently unaware of the thoughts that invade his mind, dictate his choices and overrun every relationship he has or will ever have with those close to him. It is a cloud of something violently dark, a malevolent phantom haunting his every thought, a disease of hightened imperialism that travels unrelentingly throughout his inner workings to engulf his heart in an instant. But he does not shy away from its spread, he embraces it. It is the fabric of his being, splitting Vaati from Clavicus with each passing moment. When he turns to his mother next, it is without remorse in his eyes, that if the demon underneath the surface of his skin could change his eyes to black, it would. "That they favour me and my cause against the imposters within our ranks," He spits, condecendingly, violently. What he seeks is pure and just anarchy, a trial blessed by their Gods and encouraged by the sacriligious actions of those he holds accountable. It's impending result is unstoppable, the gears of downfall is set in motion and cannot be halted. Perhaps he will ruin himself in the process, he cannot bring himself to care. Even if he must burn everything to the ground to start anew, he will. And he will do so with a wicked smile on his face.

She had welcomed the new additions with welcome arms, seeing the ebbs and flows in their membership, none staying for long who were not bloodbound to the Woods. She had known that firsthand, with Vandal's scent fading away day by day. It was with a heavy heart that she let him go, the joy that she held along with his memory slowly disappearing along with his scent. She did not see the hatred her son had for the new children until he turned to her. She saw it long before his voice opened to speak, but the words that he hissed angered her rather than frightened her. Imposters? She was offended by the word, for they had not come of their own volition and remained for loyalty's stake. How were they imposters? New blood is what keeps us alive.

To his surprise, his mother does not agree. His eyes narrow, unaccustomed to the tone she takes, the defensive words she speaks against him, and he ponders this new situation. Never would he take to raise a claw against the woman who held him within her, protecting him while he could not himself, however, he favors his Gods above any mortal. They have given him this task, but she does not yet understand the necessity of his beliefs. Perhaps he cannot blame her, it is such a tricky thing to understand. He will make her see.

"New blood is what has ruined us, time and time again," He snarls in defense, referring to the string of incompetent leaders and that of their current "dark mistress". None could deny the fact, it had been those not of the Night Mother's blood that nearly shattered their world where they stood. Nemesis, Atshen, Astrid, and even more he did not know of. Vaati had not been around to witness it all, but he had been alive for only a few short months to play bystander to the havoc created by feuding families. Perhaps the only solution was to simply rid their grounds of what was not needed; those who stood to oppose the Spiderling's claim to the throne. It was his birthright, the confessed reason why he was brought into this world, spoken from the mouth of his own mother. "And now she sits on a throne meant for me, meant for us. Is that not why you birthed us, mother?" He challenges her judgment with her own words, words that he was not meant to hear but did so anyway. "Should the title not have then been passed down to you, by blood?" It was an undeniable claim, Astrid had stolen the title of the forests commander right from under their feet. She was not his uncle's wife but his plaything, whereas Vaati was the first born son; his mother, the High Priestess. It is an injustice, a crime, and one way or another, he will make his mother see... if she has not already.

It is a double entendre, this talk of new blood. Vaati was certainly speaking of it in terms of leadership and the pack. But she was talking of genetics. It was something that she was never sure if she should ever warn her children about. There had been no impulse in them that she had seen, and so far, no one was twisted enough to go after them with a lustful gleam in their eye. Miraak knew what she was afraid of, and Damien and Cicero were male. But, Vaati was intent on purity in a feverish fashion that worried her, then infuriated her.

Potema's lip curled, but she kept herself from snapping in his face, allowing the anger to build in her sapphiric eye. Mephala called my mother here to Teekon Wilds in search of new blood. She began, her voice low and wavering with her snarl. Despite the different perspectives they had on the idea of new blood she now knew that the two were intrinsically linked rather than simply paralleled. I am the result of new blood being brought into the Melonii bloodline, as are you, she glared at him pointedly then, remembering how she had been coerced (she recalled it as being forced when she was particularly mad with her brother Damien or her children) into having them, rather than choosing on her own. Without Kove and his offspring we would barely be a pack — we barely are one now! Their numbers had wavered, then sunk as the moons went by, and it seemed now that all they could do was simply breed rather than recruit. To deny their place is to deny our existence as a Brotherhood.

fade here maybe?

Despite his profoundly supported case, Potema rejects everything he has learned to stand for thus far. Her words are like acid in his ears, and he flinches away from the severity of her tone. Perhaps had she been any other female, he would have dared to take her tongue. Perhaps, the fact that she was his mother was the only thing keeping her from his own wrath.  "Enough!" He snarls, and in an instant, he seems to grow twofold. He could have been mistaken for full-grown, savage Kjalarr, had a seemingly endarkened force not entered his eyes, and he glows with a simmering rage he has never felt before. He moves to thunder forward, instinct pushing him to do something about it, but he reels back, pulling with him the absolute resentment he feels in that moment, towards her and her ideals. It was not that he reserved hate for outsiders, but those of which thought it their place to command the woods his family built. Could she not see that it would be better this way? To keep the dark woods pure, to keep those who had no claim at the bottom where they belong? Perhaps segregation on the scale his God's seemed to demand of him was too much to ask, but there was no reason why an outsider born of outsider blood should hold a throne that was meant for him. Turning away from the priestess, a woman who was claimed to be closer than to their Gods than any else, he poses a question in his head. "Tell me, mother, was is an outsider who took your eye?" He does not know so, but he assumes so, it could not have been on of their own.

"Perhaps our fate is better settled as one that keeps our dignity than one that relies upon's on the graces of entitled, outsider scum," He parts his mother with little remorse, vile thoughts balancing on his tongue in regards to the loyalties of his family; Vaati would rather die than submit to the mercy of those who had no right to command him and there was little sign that his ideals would change.

He swells with rage, and though he looks frigthening — tall and muscular as his father, and perhaps just as frightening as he was, Potema merely glared. He could huff and puff all he wanted, but he was still just her son. She had seen him small and young, weak and pathetic, she had feed him and cleaned him. She refused to be cowed by her own offspring. She stared him down until one question broke her stoicism. Memories of the incident, half in her own memories and half from stories flooded in — all hurt her. She flinched but stayed quiet, watching her son disappear with promises of vengence and retribution floating on the wind. 

And just like that, another son was pulled away from her on ideology's sake.