Hushed Willows witcher

at the mention of gods - of powers beyond himself - stigmata's smokeburned hackles gave a small, defiant ripple and his tail lashed to suppress the contempt he felt for the concept of worshiping an unseen entity. was he not a god? did he not lord over the deer and the rabbits and all the other things deathly shy of his teeth? was he not a nail-driving hammer to building new life? could he not bring grave ruin to her physically - tangibly - in this very instant? but to her, he was just mortal; flesh, and blood, and as fallible as the rest of wolfkind. not capable of thing the things nature and weather would have her behold.

another she-wolf he did not think could ever understand him, and though the general could not fault her for this, he felt a stirring in his chest to defy the decision his war-wheel of thoughts had made. idly he couldn't help but wonder if it were a kind of whispering godspeak, crippling his own imperialism while faced with the druid's contention. his gaze softened, if it could.

"they must pity you," he expressed quietly, in a tone that did not seem to make fun of her, but could be mistaken as such; "for tirelessly trying to escape the darkness into which you were born, and will inevitably return to. such dedication indeed warrants reward, but darkness is all we have in the end, my lady. it is best we prepare to embrace it." and since he was of the mind that darkness had been there long before the light, he also thought that it would be here long after, no matter how brightly the things that brought light could have once shined to stave it.

the wolf's face turned suddenly cheeky. "but i am biased - just a devil in the night. i want for nothing more than to lead you astray and call you one of my own." he shifted on his feet, giving his long body a slow cobra-sway before reclining neatly on his haunches - compelled mysteriously into an unrecognizable pose of vulnerability for the tactician. "one of diaspora."