Mount Apikuni it's not my time, my soul ain't yours to take

it is easy for the war reaper to lose himself in the simple actions: tearing of meat that smells sickly sweet with decay and tastes far from ideal, to the action of chewing the toughened sinew; to the cracking of bones beneath the strength of his jaw not yet at it's full strength. he does not forget those he left behind in the bypass but he does not waste his waning strength thinking about them, either. if they found him, then they found him; but his job out here in the thick of the wilds was not done.

maybe it would never be done. maybe he would never return until jus drein, jus daun was done. his mother might not've spilled his blood with her abandonment but she might've well have.

hyper focused upon his meal, leaves him exposed and the word that rides the whispering winds to him boy is his first indication that he is not alone. spittle and bits of carrion clinging to his lips fall unattractively from jowls as he munches down the latest bit of half-rotten meat and he lets out a low warning growl. just one.

his food aggression will not allow him to share even this. not with strangers ...not even with his own sisters and milk-mother. not even with vater.

a flash of the gargoyle worripa had unceremoniously come to think of as his father flashes briefly in his mind and he summons the tall, imposing posture ( even if he fails horribly ). his tail lashes behind him and he turns to face them — the two. the girl and the slightly older boy.

what do you want? his body posture communicates; keeping his words: mixtures of tidbits gleamed from mahler and phrases stolen from praimfaya and shared with skaigona close.