Laments of the condescending and pious coursed and refined through the arch’s haze. The rapid scolding was expected; he looked down towards the ground, puzzled out a few of icicle shards and remnants of glacier pools as she fussed and admonished his actions. The prince had been a subject of lectures before, and presumed how to thwart most of them. He feigned shame and interest, intent on gazing towards the rime and ice until she’d finished her imperial tones and declarative statements – the wolf, however, he continued to watch from the corner of his eye – the deep rumble, the growling, the hackles were enough to keep him from truly doing anything infernal or naughty. The remark towards his dam, the wonderful, kind, benevolent Huyana, however, earned the older femme a glare, a furrowing of his brows, a polished, haughty stare as he raised his eyes to peer, sneer, against hers. A rankling of a temper sparked somewhere in his frame, coaxed and cajoled through his chest, rubble and ruin, tangled and webbed amidst a boiling, explosive tempest. Proud, defiant, and still subversive, he chiseled his response through clenched teeth and scorned lungs, defending his beloved kin and family. “Don’t insult my mother.” Simply because he hadn’t always adhered to her teachings (for while some had been grand and wise, others hadn’t sunk firmly into his psyche) didn’t mean she’d failed in her polished sagacity – and he pulsed, darkly, disdainfully, a warning of his own. Beneath the blue coat, beneath the growing muscle and bone, beneath the gallant heart and the curious, stalwart airs, drummed a merciless crescendo, barbaric and unhinged, corrupted and latent, and without his knowledge, it crept alongside his hooves, lacquering and enameling the piles of stone and snow.

But she bestowed a question, and the damning invocations faded, its master distracted and yielding to her query. For a moment, he yearned to remind her that he’d seen her run, he’d seen her flee, and that must have meant some fear, some apprehension, some anxiety amidst the silly tribulations. Maybe she was too proud, much like himself, too dignified to admit when she’d been shocked, and a little piece of him deigned to roll his eyes (he didn’t, a sense of self-preservation notched its way through his core). He’d play along, string her through bits and pieces of fabrications and lies, because for all his silly feats and stunts, he presumed she’d overreacted greatly. The Dragon’s Throat members were much more obliging than this femme full of wolf-glory and reprimands, holier-than-thou interludes and rebukes. No games, no amusements, no innocent diversions managed or made. The prince greatly preferred the king of spies and the hot sands compared to this dame. The devilish scion didn’t even bother to answer her first inquiry (naught he could have said would have salvaged the situation), his bestial shades and ruffian declarations resumed with a painted falsehood. “Ignatius. What’s yours?” Even as she softened, even as she seemingly calmed, he remained steadfast and unyielding, a miniature heathen in the making, a seditious, fledgling infidel.