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05-04-2017, 09:09 PM
Funny, how things always seem to go this way. Maybe if it had been someone else, say Tyrath, his prized younger brother, the only one that Zhu can imagine claiming as his own blood, then this whole situation might have gone differently. Zhu would have asked for return to the Dragon’s Throat, expecting to see his mother still wallowing away at the rank of Sun Physician, Gaucho still around to ignite the desert with the fire along his back, everything how it should be, like the world refuses to carry on without him.
Maybe then he could have wiggled into their lifestyle, taken his armor with dull pride but obvious boredom, and jumped straight into abusing them for his own success.
Instead, Helovia cackles in his face right as he steps in. It’s kind to return to him what is rightfully his(his magic, though there is a chance it never truly left him and his time away has made him forget its imprint on his soul), but leaves him to the wolves with the rest.
Actually, one wolf in particular. The damned little prince, as he can imagine he calls himself.
Every part of him scolds him for not paying more attention to the noises around him, for not using his magic when it’s meant to see out there when he can’t. Even while squinting, the world taunts him with its brightness, and while the birds and any crying insects are making their way into his ears, dull, distant, leaving him somewhat upset at the resistance, Kid slinks in like the snake he is.
The first sight of him since they had fucked is, well, he isn’t exactly sure if he has any leftover emotions for it. It only roared into existence through testosterone and hatred, the two of them finding some outlet for each other’s rich feelings towards one another.
Either way, he manages to keep his face stoic, only turning pale white eyes around into their sockets to look at him, the noise he’d summoned barely left to ring in his ears. I could pretend I didn’t hear or see him.
Eyes slide forward as nostrils flare, chest rising forth to drag in a long breath of air.
Out pops out a question.It hits his ears and bounces off the inside walls of his skull, rattling his brain as if to further laugh at him. No, not today.
“Kopj le.” It’s a straight shot of relief, coursing through his veins as the words roll thick off his tongue, deep and dark like the part of the ocean that his mother has told him she fears, the part that engulfs Hobgoblin and spits him back ago. A spare thought is offered to the pair to imagine how they’re doing, if they still care for him, if she’ll cry when she sees him again.
She always does anyway, so what’s his point in wasting time to think it over?
The end of his tail coils around in that way it does when he’s frustrated, face already scrunching up into a mess of annoyed wrinkles as the thought of spending anymore time around Kid sends his legs moving, taking longer steps than usual but nonetheless keeping a slow gait. Not even an ear is cocked back as an offering.
And regardless to any body language he gives off, Kid is there, persistent.
Any sort of movement is halted as soon as the words strike his ears, brows sinking and hardening as his lips scrounge into knots.
Megbasz, megbasz, megbasz.
Yet, “Nem.” Short, brief, just as he’d like it to be, some sign of an attempt for him to prove that he has goals in mind here and has changed for them. “Soha nem tartoztam semmihez.” Spoken in the same rough tone as before, followed up by now lazier steps in a try to escape.
