Moonspear When darkness speaks, it changes everything.

Hydra had thought she knew anger, thought she knew rage... in each and every one of its variables. She had become quite familiar with the emotions throughout the years. Betrayal, broken friendships, broken trust, the death of her younger sister, the return of Korei Julia, Speedy's deceit, she-wolves in their season not her own that tested her patience—

As it turned out, Hydra was wrong. Whatever she had felt through all that paled in comparison to when she saw Osiris, bloodied—beaten—

All she could see was his blood. All she could smell. Love, her young, little love, her boy, not a baby but my baby, who hurt my baby. Sadness, worry, his hurts were her own as she met him, assessed him, moved to sooth his wounds with a tongue that had only been so ginger when he was a mewling babe at her bosom.

There was no color in the paradigm, no word within the world that she knew of, that conveyed what she saw, what she felt, when she came nearer to him, to Dacio, when she smelled her. Dog of Caiaphas, of Merrick—Hydra nearly went mad with the knowing of it. Knowing made one powerful, but this—this did not feel powerful. Hydra saw her son wounded, Dacio beside him, and felt weak for the information that she gained. The famine had not killed them, the bastards! Childsflesh and wolfsflesh alike likely kept them fed. Hydra had dared to hope that fate had done away with them, but hope, that merciless thing, died, the sound of its final exhale not at all unlike the sound of her sons blood hitting stone now strangely enough. Wet. Strangled. 

Fuck hope. Fuck leaving it to fate. 

Hydra knew she must do it herself. And she would. Osiris was brought to @Lyra along with Dacio; Hydra, throughout, was silent. Hydra did not ask what happened before her son, and Dacio had helped him, she must let him rest—

But as they did, Hydra stared out into the twilit horizon, thinking. Planning. Hydra understood by now that if she left it to anything other than bringing the full weight of her might upon the plague of them... they would try to kill again. Perhaps they might succeed.

She could not afford that 'perhaps'. Hydra? Hydra would succeed. 

Dacio, Hydra thought. He had saved her son. Blinking, she realized then that it was morning. Hydra had not been able to rest herself. Even still she found she could not. The matriarch turned on her heel and sought the pale-furred male, and it was easy enough to find him given her sharp nose and his own recent trail. She peered into the space he occupied, wondering how he might be able to rest in a time like this. Queen though she was, Hydra would not deny him this if he slept still. He had fought for them, for Moonspear, for her son. So Hydra reclined onto her haunches and before long, slid to lay on her belly. Her muzzle rest upon her forelegs for now as her ears listened for any sound of Dacio stirring. Though her eyes were heavy, Hydra knew any sleep this minute would not be fitful. 

So, she lingered as a silent sentinel for her subordinate, senses occupied between him and their surroundings while she daydreamt of bringing the cur that harmed her son to a terrible, painful, and absolute end—along with those she seemed to care for. Maybe them, first. Ah, no—no point in being picky there. Dead was dead. That was all she wanted out of them.

redo. derp.