Blackfeather Woods my mind is filled with cataclysm and apocalypse

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It is not a meat cache that Kahlil stumbles across; or perhaps it is not he that has happened upon her but rather her that happened upon him. Regardless, a voice calls out to him distinctly femme in it’s cadences. It is not Nyx’s voice that has beckons him (clearly he thinks because Nyx already knows full well who he is). Kahlil gives pause in his search for a meat cache, lips pulling into a terse line as his stomach lets out another, soft rumble of protest that it is still empty, but turns to face the woman that has asked for his name. It is a fair question the tundrian thinks — seeking to bridge the gap between stranger and acquaintance. He is surprised, however, to take in the woman with his sharp, glacial gaze that she bears a pale pelage. Kahlil had been beginning to think that all the Blackfeather Woods, save for Neo, Vaati and himself are all the deepest colors of umbra; there is a certain relief to knowing it is not just the three of them that bear pale genetics …though Kahl has noticed the dusting of soot upon his extremities (the ones he can see, at any rate) and is unaware that he has begun his physical transition. Not that, mind, he wanted to have anything in common with the two other boys. One he calls brother out of necessary evil, to keep Nyx appeased but the rivalry will always exist so long as Neo continues to try to be the most dominate — not something he will ever win with Kahl. Tundrians do not bend the knee. Not to anyone.

“I am Kahlil,” The honeyed voice of boyhood not yet hit puberty dampens the effect he goes for. In time, his voice will take a husky, raspy and deep croon like whisky steeped in smoke; the voice befitting a tundrian. “Kahl, for short.” There is something about the sound of kahl that appeals to him: something that is desirable and commanding in the sound it makes as if it is a title befitting a warlord of a different world. “Who are you?” The spiderling returns the question in kind with a slight cant of his head, studying her, eyes lingering upon the scar(s) at her eye with muted interest. Abruptly, he desires them. Not her eyes, but scars also not hers but in general. For what is a future warlord without scars to make him as such? “Your scars are beautiful.” Kahl murmurs in compliment to her unable to help himself nor the fascination his tone has taken and he ghosts towards her a few steps in the hopes that he might get a better look, absent the thought that she may not share his sentiment on her facial scars.