Redhawk Caldera in a field of broken antlers, i'm holy

Baal’s ears flutter back to lay against the crown of his skull, offering a barely noticeable nod — a quick bob of his head — as Lagan works to assure him. Bro. Baal is quick to realize that this is simply Lagan’s lingo, simply his way of articulation but it still rips violently through his chest. He had a brother and he died drowning in his own blood. He is a brother to Cupun but he is not even sure he can claim that anymore. His empathy tells him that she is angry with him; but he thinks that might be skewed. He has a strong emotional connection to her and thus could easily be trying to project his worries and manifest them into what she may or may not be feeling. It complicates everything. He begins to disassociate until Lagan repeats his name, drawing him from his considerations. He is about to answer yes when his breath catches in his throat as Lagan makes a joke out of it. A strange gurgle noise leaves Baal as heat floods the skin of his cheeks and he is simultaneously annoyed and humiliated. Mostly humiliated.

“No.” The word bubbles from Baal in the zenith of his humiliation. A hiccup of the word. “N-no,” He tries again as his tongue sweeps across his jowls, tasting the coppery taste of old, dried blood stains that he had not bothered to clean off. Surely, he takes a panicking moment to think he could have taken more care of his appearance: dried blood stains, and numerous cowlicks along his spine. Unkempt. Rough. He takes a shaking breath forcing himself to focus on the matter at hand. “Not like hairball.” Definitely humiliation. Yes, he’s thoroughly humiliated. Baal wants to curl up into himself and disappear. Abruptly. He pushes himself to his paws, pupils dilated: large black holes until nothing but a sliver of irises remains, ears splaying to the side of his head, twitching back and then rising and then sweeping gracefully back to the side of his head as he contemplates, very seriously, fleeing. Hann would never let anyone speak to him like that. Never. “Baal, as in Hannibal.” Which kind of sounds like hairball now that consideration is in his mind. You will never be like Hann. You should have waited. You should not have argued. You don't deserve to take the moniker Hannibal.

“P-please don’t call me Hairball. It's just Baal.” He asks, teetering on the edge of flight; but survival, damn survival, keeps his paws firmly rooted to ground. Even through the teasing. “Kipkark Cove. It’s …it’s not around anymore. A famine swept through and the lack of food took most of the pack.” He supposes this works to explain why he is so rawboned, so gaunt. To some degree: yes; but the truth was far worse than that: he ate like a king during the famine. It was only after the fact did he begin to shed healthy weight for reasons he feels highly uncomfortable disclosing.