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08-20-2016, 09:50 PM
Sand grits into his coat, reminds him of childhood, of harsh desert heat and sand and wind being a part of him from the very movement even the smallest portion of his newborn body had touched the ground. It feels good. It goes as far as to draw a hum of approval out of him, deep, rolling, thick like the thunder that roars from the depths of its chest above, and while it lacks the red tinge of the Dragon’s Throat, it still pleases him. He is forever a man of the sea of sand, harsh, cruel, molded by the harshest environment that his mother could have managed to push him into.
With his back pressed into the ground and tail sweeping the dampened earth, he could have fallen asleep, laid there forever, just purred from the pleasure bubbling within him.
Yet that is weakness, and something Zhu has never become accustomed to. He is used to the idea that he is the one on top, that there is no man that he can’t thrash into his grave with his tank of a body and no land that he cannot overtake. Women haven’t taken his fancy at this point. Against their lingering, maybe even admiring gazes, he plunders and controls, turns his pale eyes blind to them, and ignores.
Down, he is vulnerable. His magic is of no use here, a lesson long since learned at early foalhood when him and Hobgoblin had been separated prematurely. The thought of the shapeshifter brings a familiar itch of discomfort. The rolling ends as worrisome things cross his mind, thrusting his shoulder to one side and curling his legs as they tuck under him, feathering licking the sand and taking hold of what they can as he draws himself upwards.
He worries, despite never admitting, of his mother and his brother. They are all that means anything to him, far away, probably not thinking of him and questioning his adventures. Sikeax had been so upset at his decision to leave, body outgrowing the capabilities and opportunities of the home that he has now discovered to the obsolete.
Visiting strikes him, but the time for that hasn’t quite yet arrived, for now fate has played him a new set of cards, one that the once boy, now stallion doesn’t expect.
His father.
Had he actually used his magic, putting his little purrs of contentedness to use, then it would have quickly painted him so many different images of his father watching him enjoying himself. But no, Zhu lets his guard down in the belief that no bodies will want to transverse the expanse of the flat land, driven down by the sinking feeling of being small and meaningless, harassed by weather. He had expected himself the joy of privacy without the bothersome company of his set of family ghouls.
With head turned away, out slips a snarl that rolls midnight lips up like stage curtains, flashing jagged teeth that have suited him so well in battle in the past and will in the due future.
A name, his name, rolls out of the man’s throat. He feels like he hasn’t heard it in a long time, but it hasn’t been long since Kid had given him the kindness of reminding him that he is supposed to be a man in this land, a body and a face that is known when all that he cares is that he is no one. He doesn’t want to be Zhu, the son of Volterra and Sikeax, a perfect example of wonderful breeding. He wants to be a stranger, nameless and known just for his greatness.
He could spit in Volterra’s face and snarl, but the weather does it for him, pleating rain down and cackling as lightning shatters the stillness of their meeting as his father tells him he has grown.
And he has. Time has treated him so well. It has turned him into a war machine, greatness embodied, a tank of a man who loves the pleasure of destroying and tearing down anyone in his path, never taking trophies because what does mares and material objects have to do with his success? Scars that can be worn outweigh things that can be thrown aside and bring him down.
“Mi mást tettem volna?” The sweetness of Hungarian lathers his tongue. Oh, how it rolls out of him like a bird’s song, vocal cords so used to bellowing the tribal language like a war cry. It fills with a wave of pleasure and strength when he can throw his voice into it and boom it across his battlefields, laughing with foreignity as his opponents cower at their inability to understand a soldier like him. Only one has he found someone in his travels that spoke it. It strung out thick strands of a weak bond, short times spent with one another until the other willingly agreed to their companion that friendships in the harshness of the open world never last long.
Here, he is upset and disappointed that his father doesn’t address him in his native tongue. Kid had lit a fire of short-lived pride in him when he had immediately called out to him with their mother tongue.
For a few seconds, he wonders if his mother has yet to learn their tongue so he could cherish every spoken second of it, knowing that she had taken great effort into embedding herself in the family they had unintentionally expanded.
Volterra quickly takes up the empty spaces in his vision. Something is welling in his crimson eyes, but Zhu has no interest in it as his hard brows gather over his glass eyes, clouded with something that can’t exactly be defined yet. The absence of his red dragon encourages his mouth to crawl into a confused state. “Hol van a piros?” He speaks as if he thinks his father’s recklessness has ended the life of the dragon Hobgoblin had always been so fond of.
The golden, on the other hand, doesn’t bring much to him. She’s just another thing, a body in this world that has attached itself to his father, watching him. Another set of eyes he’s got to let study him regardless of if he approves of it or not.
But now that things are moving his head, he decides on the use of his father as a source of information. Tyrath would still be clung to the side of Sikeax, would he not? If he had been a good father, then he would have taken effort in his little brother.
Thus brings him to his next question.
“Ahol Sikeax és Tyrath? Kid rám talált, a fák. Azt akarom tudni, hogy hol a többi.”
They are still family, are they not? He needs, no, must, actually demands to know where he can find the rest of them, the ones that matter. He needs to know that they are okay, that regardless of who he has become, they are still something very important to him in this world.
OOC: As a note, Zhu's primary language rn is hungarian and his helovian speaking skills suck so he'll probs speak only hungarian in here.
Mi mást tettem volna: what else was i to do?
Hol van a piros: where is the red?
Ahol Sikeax és Tyrath? Kid rám talált, a fák. Azt akarom tudni, hogy hol a többi: where are Sikeax and Tyrath? Kid found me in the woods. I want to know where the rest are.
