Bonesplinter Ravine [M] Be the First to the Feast, Let's Choke on the Past

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: nasty from here on out

Herod’s expression darkened, his features hardening into something cold and unforgiving. His lips, once curled with faint amusement, tightened into a thin, unyielding line as his gaze shifted from the impudent wolf who had interrupted, to Hasdrubal. His golden eyes glimmered with a mix of displeasure and something far more dangerous—disappointment.

The boy had claimed he would not need to be bound, that he could navigate the delicate tightrope of obedience and survival without the chains Herod had so generously allowed him to remain free of. Yet, here, laid bare before the congregation, was the test—and Hasdrubal, in his arrogance, had stumbled.

Beneath the thin veil of calm, Herod’s paw clenched, nails digging into the stone beneath him with enough force to leave deep, jagged grooves. The stone did not resist him, nor would Hasdrubal. Not for long.

Excuse me, Herod hissed to the young wolf, his voice a low, dangerous murmur, the kind that silenced even the most reckless of creatures. He leaped down from the rock face, his eyes never once leaving the boy’s retreating form as he strode after Hasdrubal.

The merriment of the pack faded into the background, swallowed by the cool, damp echo of the cave’s walls. Here, in this secluded hollow, there would be no interruptions, no curious eyes to witness what was about to unfold. A chill crept through the darkness, but it was nothing compared to the cold fury that radiated from Herod like an unseen flame.

As soon as they were safely ensconced within the cave’s dim recesses, Herod rounded on Hasdrubal with a sudden, predatory swiftness that belied his old age. His paw shot out, slamming into the stone wall beside the boy’s head, driving him back against the rough surface with a force that brooked no resistance. His breath came in low, controlled hisses, his hawkish eyes blazing with fury and something far more dangerous—betrayal.

It seems, Herod growled, his voice low, a seething thing that curled and twisted in the darkness, that we must have a conversation about respect. The words fell from his lips like stones, each one heavy with the weight of judgment.

I am aware that public humiliation is your preferred method of affection, but I assure you, boy, it is not mine. There was no room for defiance here, no space for rebellion. The disrespectful boy would learn his place, as he had before.

When you and your mother were left at the pack's borders, who took you in? Herod's voice, though soft, was like the crack of a whip in the silence. His eyes gleamed with the harsh light of judgment. Who fed you? Who taught you, shaped you, molded you into something more than the mud-born whelp you were?

With each question, Herod’s paw slammed into the stone wall beside them, the echo of it ringing through the cave like the tolling of a death knell. His eyes flicked downward, to the broken leg. Who kept you alive, Hasdrubal, when you would have perished in the swamps, a nameless corpse?

Without waiting for an answer—an answer he already knew—Herod’s paw descended upon the boy’s leg.