Bitterroot Valley [m] mourning dove

veksar hated pain.

he hated the way he could feel it infect his cells, surging throughout his body and sending his nerves haywire. he hated the way it felt to bleed and to bruise. and, most times, he would probably tell you he wasn't the biggest fan of inflicting it upon others.

he wondered briefly what his father would think of this, of his sons.

blackfell refused to let up, forcing veksar into a stag's rut and challenging his size. the man still towered over him. his head swooped away from the jab aimed right for his cheek, and he matched the energy by lunging right for him. not to maim, but to correct. he pushed with an outreach of his forelimbs, engaging him in a chase with the purpose of delivering one message: back off.

his breath came out in long tendrils of steam. he finally stood still, tail lashing behind him, as the storm cloud of rage began to lift and he saw what was truly happening — he'd turned his tooth upon his own family. his brother.

he couldn't bring himself to apologize.

he looked at star eater again, after everything, and found nothing. it felt justified.