Blue Paws

[Luthmhor]

You thought you could bury the past...
Well guess what?
It's back.

Blue ears flicked, the wiry tufts of fur that protected the delicate insides was caressed by the gentle whisper of the wind and a burly pelt was buffeted roughly as the breeze shifted to a caterwauling wind. Steel-hued orbs gazed proudly round the terra that lay before beckoning paws, their intense gaze penetrating the secrets that lay hidden, tucked into crevices and atop gray crags. Luthmhor raised his blood-stained ebony maw, flashing ivory fangs as he barked triumphantly; the noise drifted into a keen and his front mitts stamped the bullion loam that gritted beneath his pads. A long gash scored his handsome pelt; furious claws had barely missed his eyes, instead leaving jagged cuts that slashed his brow. One hind paw was raised as he limped forward, for a deep gash ran the length of the leg, but there was strength, and power, in each step. A thick tassel splayed behind him, and Luthmhor again raised his voice in a baying howl that shattered what silence had remained, what serenity was left after the brutal fight that had erupted when the great Thunder, former king of the Western Lands, had finally been challenged. Crimson still beaded and dripped from his own jaws, and streaks of the life-blood tracked his wounds. But he had ended the bloodshed with a snap of his jaws and a rigid kick; the body of the once-great warrior-king lay several yards behind him, already attracting buzzing insects as they settled on the mass of cuts and gashes, and the torn flesh at the edge of Thunder’s throat. Ruffling his mane, Luthmhor started forward again, his pace quickening until he swung into a wide arc that brought him sharply down the slope, heading toward the densite of the royals. He passed myriad slaves, perhaps one or two a noble, and he raised his skull proudly, his steel gaze boring into the eyes of the slaves.

Sadness blazed through his mind for the slaves and servants; not too long ago Luthmhor, too, had been imprisoned. Scars marked the cruel past that he had endured, and now he grimaced. The shrill screams of the vixens; the heavy grunts and the crying wails of kits too young to be snatched from their mother’s sides; all resounding in his mind, in his ears, and fury shook his eyes, shook the charade he was playing. He hadn’t wanted this, hadn’t wanted power. He had wanted freedom, and the only way he would have gotten it was to slaughter that d**ned brujo that forced the slaves to interbreed, and even breed at all. Forced the kits to labor, forced the vixens to breed again and again. Eveline. Katzchen. A vix and a brujo, his pride- both deceased, both fallen from his reality, from his life. Lips twitching, a low growl erupted from his vocals until he snapped his jaws shut, continuing his trek to the base of the overhanging cavern that served as a reliable den. Closer to the sea, closer to the water that lapped and roared and lapped again, ever-changing, so volatile and brutal, pawing the shore before twisting and erupting in fury. The air was brittle and stung with brine that clung to his pelage, moistening the lands, shrouding them in a humid glaze. Within the den tattered bits of sea grass and dry patches of leaves mixed with ginger bits of fur that had been plucked by an impregnated fae, or an irritated male- Thunder, perhaps, or whatever mate had decided to choose.

Well-muscles limbs easily made the leap it required to seek entrance to the den, and he grunted and kicked the mass of bedding backwards, lost to the wind as it swooped towards the beach, billowing and breaking into clumps that became ragged with its descend. Ebon claws ground harsh against the rough surface of the rock, and the silver-blue pelt of the King rippled with knotted sinews. Orbs gazed ‘round him, and he rose on powerful hinds to place his front mitts gingerly upon the rock face, gazing into the abyss as the crevice spiraled into the night. The silver-phased male peered into the shadows that creased and folded. Noises around him trumpeted before fading into a mournfull call.Stepping back, thin slabs of the flint crumbled with the sudden movement of his weight, but the King's entire body was rigid before it calmed, his adrenaline lapsing as a sense of tranquil serenity quailed him. The murky depths of the sea had turned a sallow orange as the last rays of the dying sunset reflected meekly upon the land, giving way to the lidless orb of the moon that was creeping carefully into the ladder and peaks of the sky.