Blackfeather Woods you look awful

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She has little doubt that Ares could not care less about the predicament of their sister's rotting head just a mere metre away from their spot of conversation. But it was even more intriguing that Althaia's disapeerrance was not the incentive for his venture. She opens her mouth to speak, but his silenced by none other than the Silencer himself, her son. Hairs raise on the back of her neck, out of annoyance and of anger, for had she deemed Ares a viable threat, they would not be conversing; Atshen was brash, and he let his rage dicate his actions. It was a habit she had since shed of, but she could not say the same for her son, who continually proved that deep down, he would not answer to her when the time came to choose.Atshen is a catalyst of demise, a boy a nuclear temper and no off switch, molded and corrupted by her very design. In each encounter she witnessed him in, it became apparent that the boy had far exceeded her outline, and had begun to develop a consious of his own.

It was concerning, for would it not be cause for concern if a weapon of mass destruction learned to pick it's targets on it's own accord?

She had overstepped, misjudged her own influence and perhaps sealed her own demise in the form of a boy who she could not recognise as her son anymore but a soilder. Nemeis has worn out of the trust she feels for her son, and in that moment, full of distaste for his decision making, The wraith will fight her own battles, she does not need her son to do her job for her. Nemesis snarls the boy down, the glint of her inscisors breeching just beyong her lips before she turns to face the boy. With a pointed look does she dismiss the child, one that leaves no room for defiance; and she leans back on her haunches, the tension disaperates with the news of Ares's abolishment from her former home. "You are my brother, why would there not be a malicious reason following you?" She retorts with a light scoff. The wraith knows better to accept even her flesh and blood into her new place of reign. So far, doing so had only caused one massive and exhausting headache, and eventual murder. Yes, getting angry and killing did run within the genes of their family, passed down through generations of semi-barbaric anscestors. It was the very reason his presence made her uneasy, as if she expected more from his abrupt arrival besides his current state of homelessness. He wanted something, for she was sure that he was not looking for a shoulder to cry on, and least of all her to bestow upon him a fake pity he knew she did not have the moral integrity to give. And so, she awaited what other than the news of his failures with malevolently curious eyes; "What do you really want, Ares?" Her gaze was unavoidable, an endarkened widsom hidden within that dragged out the unconsious motive behind words that mislead his desires; as if her very gaze could convince his subconsious other than what he chose to believe brought him to her neck of the woods.

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