Phantom Hollow For 180 seconds...oh shit look at the time

Moath took a step forward. Then another. A scream rose within Malcanthet's body, cast into the Void rather than uttered. He was frightened as he hadn't been before.

But his brother made no move that would end his life, no wound was made on Mal's form, just the feeling of Moath's breath across his fur, into his skin.

While he recognized the intimacy, the silent declaration of kin, Mal felt bile rise in his throat as he smelled his brother's coat in turn. He smelled of decay, of decomposing things. Initially, Malcanthet thought his brother had rolled in something, but then he saw the flecks of blackened blood and hunks of putrefying flesh and realized that these morsels had been here for days, weeks even. Moath did not bother to clean himself as Malcanthet did; he did not wash in the stream or roll in flowers. The remains of his prey stayed on him, marking him as a killer long before you saw him.

Malcanthet did not move for fear of his brother. He knew that Moath would not harm him, but there was doubt. And some fears could not be quelled — unsupported anxieties were the bane of existence after all.