Moonspear blood [m]oon rising

The heat that rolled off of her now was of a different sort and one known well—anger. Dirge was no stranger to how anger worked, how easily it swelled through the cracks and crevices of every other emotion like a helpful smattering of grease to cogs unwilling to turn. His composure remained through piercing barbs, knowing their truth. No, nothing in life was certain, no tomorrow a guarantee; she spoke nothing he didn't already know.

A sigh loosened as she pulled away, the anger flare of fire stirring in every step against damp grit. But her steps had a tell to them, the turn of her ear another suggestion for her to listen and for him to talk. And for a few moments, he found no words again to come, but did not feel the resignation that would normally pursue such a dramatic twist to things. Others he would not have pursued, but she was still set apart from them, and he followed in her wake at first playing the part of a lost puppy.

But soon those steps moved with purpose to catch her though flee she did not yet. In that purpose he too felt the anger seize him and how it simmered beneath the edges of his lips that threatened to curl. Tantrum throw all she wanted, it would not come without parting words unfound until now in the closing distance. He cared not if she would whirl on him to snarl and spit.

"Would you risk their lives then? I've no doubt you'd give yours for theirs to protect them, but what would you do if everything and everyone you know were to turn on you for this, to find it threatening?" The nuances of change were not lost on him; her venture out of adolescence was not the only thing in his peripheral. "That was a lesson my own mother learned the hard way and it cost her plenty to keep her children alive." He laid his fears out, spelt them best he could, and perhaps it would be for naught and she would keep going.