The rumble of displeasure in the Prince’s chest had been borne of his misunderstanding of Sitri’s chuckle and had been far from anything personal. If there was one thing that Ira couldn’t stand it was being laughed at. It left him with a bruised ego, festering in personal humiliation, and angry above all else. Ira did not like the burning of anger as it rushed like fire along a trail of gasoline in his veins. It made him feel utterly out of control of his body and he hatred and feared it in equality. A smile — or at least Ira assumed it was supposed to be a smile — tugged at Sitri’s lips distorting his face making him look …well creepy. To the point where Ira really wanted to tell Sitri to never smile. Ever. “Yes, well,” Ira drew haughtily, flippantly. “We can celebrate it together when I do.” And he would. He would perfect his skills until he could sneak up on Sitri, too. He would be a lethal weapon with those kinds of skills, aided only by the knowledge of poisons (that hopefully would be expanded upon as it were it was a limited knowledge he held). Ira’s skill sets were geared towards harming and killing, never for saving. He would protect the innocent but he would never be their savior, never be a hero. He was too destructive for those things.
Apparently, Ira’s assumption had been wrong and the insolent Princeling scowled darkly down at Sitri even as the male explained and corrected him. “You stole children?” Ira blurted, disdain clear upon the still boyish features of his face. “What did she do with them? Eat them?” On second thought, Ira thought with a harsher scowl, maybe he really didn’t want to know. “Why didn’t you fight back? Christ, you’re big enough.” And Ira had a sneaking suspicion that if pushed to it Sitri could be a monster of a beast on the battlefield. While the male did exhibit signs of being of a lesser intelligence than what Ira would have considered average (which was still beneath Ira’s own accelerated intelligence, thankyouverymuch) Ira could see where that might offer a clear advantage. Ira couldn’t understand it because he would have never let himself be someone’s bitch like that. Of course, maybe Sitri had suffered from Stockholm Syndrome in which he wouldn’t have wanted to fight back. Ira didn’t know and didn’t really care enough despite wanting to sate his own prodding and prying curiosity.
The fur along Ira’s nape and spine bristled when Sitri let out a savage snarl and growl pointedly directed at him and the Prince retaliated with a snarl of his own, exposing his sharpened teeth, jumping to his paws quickly, leaping down from his perch, where he attempted to force Sitri into submission, ivory ears pinned down to his skull as he aimed to grasp the Epsilon’s snout in his jaws to reprimand him even though by all accounts Sitri held the rank over Ira. Princeling was something Jinx called Ira out of affection — it was not an actual title despite how Ira twisted it to be. Breathing heavy Ira back up from Sitri then though he still held himself in a dominate posture watching Sitri. It was a piteous sight but Ira was not ready to admit that he no longer held an interest in dominating him out of guilt alone. He apologized and babbled some more crap about his previous queen. “Not anymore.” Ira snapped sharply at Sitri. “You serve Jinx and Silvertip. Don’t forget again.” Ira warned viciously, black, leathery nostrils flaring before he inhaled deeply and let it out with a heavy sigh.
“Ok, ok, Sitri. Get up. Shit. You’re actually making me feel bad.” And that was horrible because Ira very rarely ever felt bad about his actions.
