To breathe, to feel, to know I'm alive

[table width=60%][tr][td]
In time a gray and russet form approached, one that he knew very well. Szymon. His heart began to thud harshly against his ribcage and an involuntary snarl crossed his snowy features. The man looked markedly different since the last time Jagoda had laid eyes upon him, his physique more filled in, a definite musculature lining his bones where once there had been nothing to speak of. Anger burned all throughout Jagoda's body.

His brother seemed no happier to see him. By now, Jagoda had noticed that Skellige's scent was but faint upon the air, where once it had been strong, all-consuming. What could this mean? Surely his powerful brother had not stepped down from his throne. Jagoda could not imagine Skellige doing such a thing, ever. A nagging fear mingled with his anger, with his hatred for Szymon. 

Pitch ears folded back sharply, a low growl issuing from his throat. He regarded his brother with wide eyes, peering upon him with venoumous pools of yellow-green poison. In the span of an instant contact was made, serrated fangs grasping and digging into the tender flesh of his muzzle. His growl rose in pitch, reaching the heights of a furious whine. But even as the trecherous pain coursed through him, his tail lowered, pinning against the soft black  fur of his belly. Not only was Szymon of a higher rank than he, Jagoda had no rank at all. For the first time in their history with one another, the younger wolf held the power. Moreover, Skellige was not here, and possibly, not anywhere. There was nothing he could do.

Fuck off with this act, Szymon, growled Jagoda. You have the upper hand. It disgusted him to admit it, particularly aloud, but he could think of no other way to get beyond the sickening moment.


[/td][/tr][/table]