Lion Head Mesa i found a catalyst for disaster in you

A small snort leaves Khal’s black, leathery nostrils as the older man states that he isn’t the scaring kind and perhaps that is true, the soturi thinks but that does not mean that would Khal was not the sort of youth that he was, that the thought of being eaten might have scared any other child. Or perhaps, they, too would not be so bothered by it. Khal has a streak of narcissism in him and combined with an unshakable confidence that does not always spell good things for him. In teaghaligh the enok tundra there were no consequences for this but the world outside of his birth place was less kind and catering to young wolves. Yet, even so, even knowing this, the tundrian holds to the belief that the second he doubts himself, the second he is dead. There is no room for doubt and thus the door for death remains firmly closed.

“If you wanted a fight all you had to do was ask, old man,” Khal grins and the lift of his lips in a manner reveals his teeth. “I’ll never turn down a friendly spar and a chance to improve.” And as much as he hates to admit it losing is all apart of the process of making himself better. A fighter that wins all the time will never improve; but Khal has a trick up his sleeve: he has the warrior apprenticeship and training behind him. For once, he does not boast of it because he thinks there will be something satisfying about showing that he isn’t as inexperienced or helpless as it is likely first perceived of one as young as him.

He tucks his muzzle down to protect his throat as he circles the man once. “Elderly go first.” He is picking, now. How did the older man put it? Trash talking. Which is sort of just like being an asshole without it being warranted and Khal cannot help but think it’s kind of fun.