Fairspell Meadow shed every skin that no longer fits

the woman that approaches him walks with a small gait — he notices that there is something wrong with her right forepaw and her face is twisted in a permanent grimace; his assessment is quick with a sweep of his lapis lazuli gaze that does not linger too long on any specific spot. she might not be the prettiest thing to look at ...but what were appearances? he was the golden prince ...the lost prince and scarab cannot help but fear that inside he's become something twisted and dark. he'd always had an affinity for dead things but the utter willingness to devour wolf flesh as if it were venison — regardless of how righteous he feels his cause was, regardless that he had not been the one to deal the killing blow — was monstrous. scarab knows this even if the consideration causes a shiver to slither down his spine. a chill but lacking the regret he suspects he should feel. the dark prince.

the warming look in her gaze as she asks her questions causes his breath to tremble around the petrified sandpiper within his grasp and the feeling that if he could cry he would. it reminds him of the suns of his life with a fierce longing for his mothers. he gently places the sandpiper against his forepaws. it's — my prize? which wouldn't be a lie. it'd once been the crown jewel of his collection. now it was all that was left of it. my prize. he settles for after all. it's all i have left.

scarab. my name is scarab.