Lion Head Mesa i found a catalyst for disaster in you

last post for me & dro. feel free to post once more or archive as is.

Kahlil let out a low huff of unbridled frustration with the adult reiterates that it’s a game — no, the tundrian counters in his head, I don’t want a game. I want a spar. Even if it meant losing, he wanted a spar. He didn’t want to play. He wanted to work off the restless energy that prowls in him, the aggression and the grief. He wants to hon his skills. He wants to be taken seriously but it’s become insultingly obvious to the warlord in training that this man thinks of him as some squeaking infant. A warning snarl tears itself from the boy’s lips as the adult boops him on the shoulder and crowds him. “Back the fuck off,” he half hisses, half snarls. He considers laying his very real, very sharp teeth in the adult’s flesh but refrains because the second he does he suspects he will be met with retaliation and no he could not take Murdock in a real fight. At best, Kahlil could dodge his attacks but he doubts it would be enough.

Kahlil doesn’t want to be treated like a kid because mentally he hasn’t been a kid for some time, and he feels indefinite frustration that such is the first instinct of adults. He ceased being a kid the day of the incident; because his survival depended upon shedding childish innocence and naivety. Kill the boy so the man can be born. Far too soon, but it couldn’t be helped. “I don’t want to play with you.” The soturi spits after taking his own command and backs away. When he is sure the man won’t follow him he turns and heads to a different territory, not immediately returning to Blackfeather Woods to throw off his trail …just in case.