Mount Everfall your skin knew battle before it knew war

Darcia wasn't the kind of wolf to trade insults— he simply didn't have a deep enough interest in those he didn't care for to offer them a verbal opinion on their inadequacies— but he was inclined to serve compliments where they were due. And to him, Nero's depth and conversation were certainly deserved of his  appreciation. He made a low noise of contentment as his company relayed to him that his imagination was a way in which for him to become lost; not something that the warwolf had any experience in, but it was a quality he could admire in another. Besides, if every wolf were like himself, the world would likely turn to a dull and violent place. For where were any of the practical and the grounded without the dreamers and fanatics beside them.

He listened raptly to Nero's next tale, even daring to pull himself forward on his belly, chipping at the space between them with casual subtlety. Another bolt of lightning punctuated the end of Icarus; a wolf (or entity of some sort) whose obsessive love had been a part of his eventual demise. He could not help but correlate the myth to the potential he saw here; a modicum of potential fate that had drawn them both here, and could lead to poor Nero's destruction at the hand of a wild and sun-hot heat of possessiveness that radiated through Darcia's core.

He didn't believe in many things, though had come to understand of himself that his wants were dangerous, and his appetites weren't easily sated. He would consume and consume like a supermassive black hole, and he had conflicting thoughts on whether or not he wanted to claim Nero in such a deep dark pit of own his intense love.

Darcia's ears twitched as the question was predictably turned on him, and the two-toned monolith smiled wryly. "Besides now, you mean?" he rumbled with coy obscurity. "I suppose I have desired many things in my life, though none that I can define as entirely unlikely... I fear I am not a dreamer as thee, young Nero."