Shadow Mountain what i had once mistaken for death was, instead, a door

thanks for joining! ♥ italics are what cyron's body language is communicating so feel free to assume that pho understands! :-)

the chuff startles cyron from his drink. the sterling saefyn’s head snaps up, ears fluttering back to rest against the crown of his skull, as his curled tail raises and he bristles as his first and blinding instinct is that blackfeather wolves have found him. he does not know how to fight but is determined that, that does not mean that he won’t go down without one. he has not survived this long, against all the odds stacked against him to just lay down and accept death. cyron was a chortling babe once and was forced into a situation that he was not psychologically equipped to handle; it has changed him, left an undeniable mark upon him. it reverted him to the most primal of defaults: survival. the older man, garbed in ivory approaches him and dull chestnut eyes take in the slow gait, the cautious approach. cyron is weak and cannot sustain a fight for very long, he knows. he is weak from hunger, from torture of his psyche. he is battered and he is broken and what will become of him when he pieces himself back together is yet unknown but he is alive and he has become the hero he has searched for during his months of captivity and he won’t submit to oppressors anymore. he is terrified and yet it is easy to find courage in that harrowing fear now that he knows how to reach out to it.

he does not want to fight, though. he does not want to die.

cyron’s body is still as taunt as a bow string, traipsing betwixt fight or flight. yet, another fierce assessment of the older male shows that the stranger's posture is not hostile in any manner, and a inhale of his scent as it wafts cyron’s way tells him that he is not of blackfeather woods. this knowledge brings with it some sense of relief but it is not enough to ebb away his unwillingness to relax. the ivory garbed male is a stranger regardless and in cyron’s current psychological state strangers were not to be trusted. cyron’s ears flutter for a second, swiveling before they slick back against his skull once more as the man asks him if he is alright. cyron offers him a dubious look, his salmon pink tongue drawing across his jowls to collect stray droplets of water before he crinkles his muzzle to silently command that the male keep his distance. he has spent so long being mute that he is not sure he could find his voice; at least not here.

fine, his body language sharply communicates though he is anything but. It hurts him to be so brutish, so …cold but he has to protect himself. he has to defend the fortress he built around himself out of the necessity to endure.