Ouroboros Spine tuvragaa ⊪

she speaks like snowfall. soft, careful—and he knows that her words smooth him. the guard hairs, color of ebony, smoothen against his backside as he both visibly and mentally relaxes. the guard is ever present, but there is no need to carry himself with such demeanor before this woman.

he sees much wisdom in her. wisdom that he could benefit from, learn from. this is a woman who has nurtured many, a mother to many—masa feels great reverence bubbling within his chest, shallow, but a pool that grows. he dips his head, a crown bowed for her, eyes narrowed upon the ground as he listens.

he does not eat, because it would be rude to if not invited—but his eyes are persistent upon the spread. looking upon tasty meat, ignoring the grumble of his stomach. he has not eaten yet, today, he realizes. too busy patrolling, too caught up in a bout of daily brooding.

he casts his eyes upwards to the moonwoman. but there is no harm in living in the past. he says, suddenly, brows coming to screw together in heavy thought, emotion that falls over his yellow eyes so often cold. you mourn what is gone. it is healthy to. to know what is remiss—then you may fix it going forward. she did not ask for his opinion, but he gave it anyway.

he seems to mentally, or emotionally, flinch away at the mention of his home. but rude, it would be, to not indulge her in the knowledge of his past when she had so openly laid out hers—or what was most important of it. his features are tight-lipped now. my clan is far. he exhales a short breath. it was only us men. i was taken from my mother at a young age.

he does not remember her face. he only remembers how she smelled. so soft, so sweet. it is a comfort he will never know again.

taught to be cruel. my innocence stolen from me. i fought, and if i did not fight, it was to die. i did not want to die. i live. but i hold no hate in my heart, his tail swishes quietly, not for them. but i do... his eyes squeeze shut. it haunts me. i have great anger—and i fear that anger.