Nova Peak Yerûmpiits

it is hard to remain composed. collected; in the light of this. the bastard first centers eyes upon her, malding with a bitterness suddenly taking root, flicking from one blue stone in her skull to the other.
searching for any sign this was a joke—it was not. so lorcan takes a deep breath—nostrils flaring, a barrel chest widening, shoulders squaring as he moves. fully facing ayovi now, brandishing dagger that glints against the ferocious light of her slander.
i would watch who i am speaking to, he warns first, and then second, his head tilts inwards slightly. casting dark gaze down the length of a crooked snout, where eyes seem to darken despite burning gold as ever, brows furrowing, scar slicing over one eye; fierce, brassy in its complexion. ayovi.
did you see me take that woman? he asks. he knows the answer. no. he says for her. taking an assertive step forwards, where dark fur begins to lift, hackles rising with a tempo that is breathing of an arrogance growing more mad by the palpable second. see me as i sowed my seed deep within her? now, a sardonic chuckle that sits uncomfortably within his throat. it desires to be more; a snarl, a baring of teeth.
no! it is within seconds that his demeanor changes. from cool, collected, to driving a dagger fierce into figurative table that separates them. face taking now all the wildness of a furied man, nails churning earth beneath as he suddenly closes up distance between them. you did not! he bellows.
stopping only inches from her face, where he breathes heavily, drawing in gusts of desperate air to fill burning lungs. if she were not pregnant, he would've had her by the throat by now. fatherhood has not placated him—only made him more on edge, thirsting for a life he had left behind for the very sake of his wife she now accused him of forsaking.
i will kill you if you suggest it again.