Blackfeather Woods hang your head upon my throne

fade here maybe?

Despite his profoundly supported case, Potema rejects everything he has learned to stand for thus far. Her words are like acid in his ears, and he flinches away from the severity of her tone. Perhaps had she been any other female, he would have dared to take her tongue. Perhaps, the fact that she was his mother was the only thing keeping her from his own wrath.  "Enough!" He snarls, and in an instant, he seems to grow twofold. He could have been mistaken for full-grown, savage Kjalarr, had a seemingly endarkened force not entered his eyes, and he glows with a simmering rage he has never felt before. He moves to thunder forward, instinct pushing him to do something about it, but he reels back, pulling with him the absolute resentment he feels in that moment, towards her and her ideals. It was not that he reserved hate for outsiders, but those of which thought it their place to command the woods his family built. Could she not see that it would be better this way? To keep the dark woods pure, to keep those who had no claim at the bottom where they belong? Perhaps segregation on the scale his God's seemed to demand of him was too much to ask, but there was no reason why an outsider born of outsider blood should hold a throne that was meant for him. Turning away from the priestess, a woman who was claimed to be closer than to their Gods than any else, he poses a question in his head. "Tell me, mother, was is an outsider who took your eye?" He does not know so, but he assumes so, it could not have been on of their own.

"Perhaps our fate is better settled as one that keeps our dignity than one that relies upon's on the graces of entitled, outsider scum," He parts his mother with little remorse, vile thoughts balancing on his tongue in regards to the loyalties of his family; Vaati would rather die than submit to the mercy of those who had no right to command him and there was little sign that his ideals would change.