Starglow Basin Panthera Leo

@Osiel @Soto shooting Arslan over as discussed w/ Lauren

Arslan trotted along the edges of the basin, unwilling to enter yet unwilling to leave. The area filled with curious scents that made him wonder, made his paws itch for him to move further in.

He held his tail high and waving as his mind raced, but the territory smelled of other wolves. Multiple. The lion would not be so stupid so as to enter without permission.

Yet it held his interest without him carrying any knowledge of the group inside. Few could manage such a feat.

there’s a very handsomely colored man rifling their borders. his fur is a rare russet soto has only observed in the signalfire of autumn leaves. 

soto’s been keeping an eye turned ever since niño’s death. right now, he painfully collects sprigs of sun dried grass. 

he’s watchful, but does not come close yet. it’s only been eleven days since his skirmish with the desert wolves. any day he’s expecting reprisal. this — among anything else — could be a trap. 

so for now soto moves gingerly among one of the raised dunes, eyes trained on the stranger and awaiting his next move.

Care or caution were not traits Arslan aligned with. After a moment and the flick of his tail, he entered the basin.

He walked with the clear confidence of a once regal man. As though his surroundings belonged to him solely - yet he lacked the grace required of nobility. It had faded, leaving him as little more than a disobedient peasant.

The place smelt herbal, yet of injury. His nose wrinkled at the horrid mixture.

the siena-backed wolf moves into the basin. 

soto’s in no position to accost him. 

he follows, noting the man’s plucky confidence. 

close enough now to be seen, soto makes himself known. 

and waits — this could be an interloper, or it could be more assassins from muat riya. 

soto’s claws curl into the sun-baked sand in apprehension.

A wolf makes themselves known. Dark-coated, muscular, nearly handsome. He holds his interest.

"Your borders are weak." His words simple, purposeful. Intended to agitate.

His expression appears nearly practiced. Smug, unmoving. Arslan is nothing if not overconfident.

He has no intention of taking over territories, but the rush gained from disregarding such things is all he has at the end of the day.

the man from the red hills speaks; his voice holding a timbre soto does not need to know the language of to know it is meant to agitate. 

in his current condition he’s in no shape to answer. 

instead, a raise of his brow. if what he said was important, he’d reiterate. if it wasn’t, he might move on. 

soto weighs his options; the man’s healthy and well groomed. certainly lovelier than anything that occupies the basin currently. he could be useful — but he could be dangerous, too. 

soto senses an edge to the man simmering under the surface. 

an asp, sunning under thermal leaves. 

he flicks his tail in a silent gesture and starts to move, one ear trained towards the interloper.

The stranger does not answer, nearly dismissing him. Arslan will not be ignored.

He follows the stranger at a trot, brushing their shoulder with his own as he matches their pace. He notes the scents he caught upon his approach, and momentarily questions if that may be why they have acted in such a way.

Still, he plans to persist. Until he loses interest at the very least.

soto knows he walks on the knife's edge.

any day now that knife will tilt, and his life will tumble off of it.

for now he enjoys living. the scent of sun-baked dust, of burnt chaparral. the sensation of his fur brushing that of the wolf besides him. they match paces, the cinnamon stranger's far more fluid: soto's got a hitch or two in his getalong.

he motions to a trail where sheep have tamped down the red clay. ahead three sheep and a yearling scratch at the sand-flat, eating roots long shriveled by a relentless sun.

The stranger gestures to a path where a group of four sheep graze. Leandros finds himself frowning at the sight. He is unsure of what the stranger wishes to ask of him.

Is he simply hungry? Or is there something else on the path that he is meant to be looking at?

Nearly as honest as Arslan himself, his stomach growls at the sight of the hooved animals. He has ate little more than rats and rabbits in recent days - a larger meal would do him some good.

But nonetheless, these sheep do not belong to him. Fighting off a territorial wolf and his prey at once would not be ideal. This one seems rather docile, but the lion is sure that other's are nearby.

By now he has matched the man's silence. He stares, waiting for further explanation.

the man's stomach grumbles.

soto motions to his flank with a laugh.

then back to the sheep. cena. dinner.

he is in no position for a long pursuit, but he can play the distraction, maybe startle them right into the stranger's jaws. and if he proved he could hunt, he proved useful to soto.

the man crouches in the adoptive pose of the hunter, signaling his comrade do the same.

He watches the man with eyes that can only be described as hungering, longing. The stranger crouches, and so Arslan does the same. If he wishes to help him hunt, the prince will not deny him.

Watching the sheep he licks his lips, tail waving. The delicacy has evaded him until now, and he is eager to get a taste of the unfamiliar meat.

He wonders if the hunt will be the same as the prey in his home - if he can simply chase them until they tire themselves out, then take down the weaker of the four animals.

no words have been exchanged, which is exactly how soto likes it.

they fan out, two shadows assailing the dark plains.

the sheep graze.

one is situated more east than the others; it is bold as it crops down meager grass. soto's eyes fall upon it.

arslan would see the intention writ across his gaze.

situating himself to where he might startle the sheep into arslan's jaws, soto leaps forward with a grimace of pain. 

pain is a small price to pay for a full belly.

the sheep raises its stupid head and bleats in alarm, whirling away from soto and right into where arslan lurked.

The man startles the sheep, and one runs right to where Arslan lay. This makes things much easier.

And so, he pounces. Jaws clamping onto the neck of the wooly creature he holds tight as it flails and bleats in panic.

The rest run away, leaving it behind. How truly pathetic the sheep must feel.

Slowly but surely it comes down, the lion giving the animal a good shake.

soto prepares to run after the thing, but arslan is there -- the golden lion with his fangs wrapped around prey.

the sheep falls screaming, kicking.

soto limps towards its haunch, grabbing a flailing leg.

while the lion shakes, the anaconda wraps its fangs like coils around extended limb -- and wrenches with all his might.

subdue, subjugate, die.

such is the law of nature, and soto simply a part of it.

Movement ceases, and only then does he release the creature.

He licks the blood from his lips, staring down at the carcass with a clear satisfaction. Things have gone his way, just as they should.

Soon he looks to his companion, tail waving high with little hesitation in his confident stance. However, a new respect is evident in his gaze. "Will you tell me your name?" He thinks to ask. Such basic information is nothing if not necessary.

the sheep stills. soto releases his grip, his stomach roiling with fierce hunger.

besides him the man's voice breaks the quiet air; the timbre is deep but every word meaningless save for one. name. it shared a similarity with nombre, and he had heard -- many times, in fact -- the wolves of these valleys use that word.

he lifts his chin. soto. and then he lunges for soft underbelly, tearing into skin with hard shoves to fill his belly with hot blood and warm intestines.

He nods, and after a moment offers his own name. "Arslan." He was unsure when he began to use his surname, yet it felt right rolling off of his tongue. Leandros was much too regal, but Arslan simply meant lion. It was much more suitable.

The man, Soto, tore into the carcass and so the lion followed his lead. The meat was a taste like no other, something he wished to savour from the moment it hit his tongue.

Carefully he eyed his companion. He could only hope that he was correct in his assumption that he would be willing share.

soto would allow the mutual feeding, but only if the lion did not make a move for the intestines soto currently stood over. soto's opinion was he was in charge; and those in charge earned choice bits first.

he dug and tore into soft belly, feeling the flooding sense of warm blood drown his senses. after he eats his fill, he stalks stiffly to a sunny rock nearby.

licking himself clean, soto watches arslan for a time, before he brushes his pelt against that of his kill-brother. follow me.

Arslan shows no issue with this, for he prefers his meat in the bone. The satisfaction of tearing away at something so stubborn has always left him full.

Soto sits to clean his bloodied paws, and the lion cannot help but watch. It's a new kind of hunger, one he has not had the privilege of experiencing. He feels as though it is something he should hold close.

When the others pelt is brushed against his own, he cannot help but feel compelled to follow. Licking his lips clean, he raises from his meal.

soto does not see the lion's gaze shift, hunger there behind dark iris.

he moves in a slow trot that once could be called loose-limbed, were it not for the obvious limp. he would recover in due time, but for now his body's a map of scars, dictating stories of battles he'd only barely survived.

soto brings him to the stone quarter; a rendezvous cleverly hidden by a sharp arch of sandstone and slate. there's makeshift dens laid haphazardly. one for qiao, one for the boy, one for osiel. soto motions to the man and suggests he make himself comfortable.

he does not linger. climbing up the steps to lookout point, soto spares sangre a quiet glance and resumes watch over their tentative keep.