Larksong Grotto done running

Torn between his skewed sense of moral duty and the need to rekindle with his mother, the Crownore was bitter. Fuming still, even after the heartfelt reunion with Anóre—Erys was proving time and time again to be nothing but a fucking burden. A man with all bark and no bite to back himself up. Getting himself in trouble that Emýr felt obligated to rescue him from. 

During the nights, as the gaunt man slept not too far off from where the dark prince had settled, Emýr would try to convince himself to leave. To disappear into the night and travel far enough way that the man wouldn't find him, or would either wilt away trying. Mulling over it with a sneer that seemed permanent, a war waged inside of him. The age old struggle of good against bad, of what's right versus what is wrong. 

A cracked, skewed moral compass that could never seem to decide which to settle on. To be cruel and heartless was easy—and it should have been second nature to a man as haunted and troubled. But then the guilt settles, the reminder that he'd promised himself long ago that he wouldn't allow himself to become his father.

It's torture, and the answer is inevitably the same, and the path is drawn always back to Erys. Steps fueled with ire guide him after small prints in the snow, then the dirt. Following a trail he shouldn't, but could not turn away from. Because as much as he hated it, Erys was his to look after. 

Obligated to make sure the man lives. Even though he makes it fucking impossible. 

There's a snarl, sounds of a struggle that make him surge forward, crushing underbrush beneath the urgency of his sprint. Jaded eyes narrowing, tunnel-vision of red honed on the rogue that had Erys face down in the dirt. Helpless, defeated. 

Something ugly stirs inside his chest, something foul. His, his, his. And those fucking hands and teeth and spit were all over what is his. 

There is no time to mull, there is no time to debate. And there is no hesitation as Emýr leapt forward to crash himself into the side of the assailant. Barreling the rogue onto his side, a guttural snarl pulled from the depths of his lungs. The struggle is a flurry of snapping jaws, gnashing teeth—but he does not stop, and will not stop until the body beneath him goes still and he stands within a pool of blood that is not his.