Яikyn

There is a gathering alongside the lake, one that draws my attention as I find myself again drawn from the wild lands, delivered to the familiar overcast of the towering blue gray stone of our mountain. Still something to my step that is a bit too arrogant, a bit too possessive, I pause long enough to lift my golden crown higher, eyes narrowing for clarity to find that the figure that I see there along the shore is not an illusion.

Wings?

My ears fall back, my nostrils curl in contempt as a snort of confused disgust escapes them.

No wonder my father is haunting the wilderness, no wonder he seeks the solitude of the mountains. At first I thought it had been the absence of my mother and I, but now I am not so sure.

My tail cuts the air with a whistle, my hooves stirring to life beneath me, carrying my frame across the vale at a canter, my tangled mane swept back to reveal the curvature of my neck and shoulder, the various marks of my spars and battles healing or healed, leaving lightened patches of pale cream among the rich black browns of my pelt.

As I near the shore line I find that the winged beast wears as many marks of battle as I do, though it eases the strange knot working tighter in my chest none at all. If he notices that I’m glaring at him, I don’t care - the very sight of him standing there unscathed, no moon eyed beast of a Haruspex taunting his wings with the threat of removal, no wolves snarling at his turned back to flash grins when he turns his gaze back upon them.

I hate him, though I don’t know him. I want him to burst into the righteous flames of Aithniel’s broken heart, as she fled across the vale, tears slipping down her pale, perfect cheeks.

How dare they let his kind here now, when she has fled from the absence of their welcome.

Managing to sever my eyes from the mixed breed behemoth to look over at Ashamin, I find that I am unable to remove the scowl that marks my features – and surely, the Haruspex can guess, at least partly, as to why its there, my golden hooves easing to a halt not far from the bundle of cloth and creature that is the slumbering Lochan, as far from the hybrid as I can be while still being included in the group along the shore.

The sun brings light to a new wound along the paint’s neck, one that is not from my arsenal or that which dappled his painted flesh while we exchanged our blows in the spring thaw. A curious thought as to what became of him almost makes my outrage at the presence of a hybrid that is not my sister ease – almost.

"Ashamin," I say with a nod, trying to hide my irritation that there is a mutation among us, "what is this about?"


[ OOC: why is he such a jerk idk D: ]

in every heart a hole