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For Leonard.
The fury had never left him. With each passing day the plague of silence worsened, as if his voice had been stolen from his very throat. Storms raged inside his mind without signs of peace to come, and the fury burnt hot within his eyes, a scarlet possession angry enough to melt his frosted stare. When idle, he remained in his tent due north of Salsola and his mother; when busied he moved two-legged and with a hooded gaze, pointed through ivory curls. His confident saunter dwindled, his head no longer held high, his shoulders no longer squared. Was it vengeance he sought? Attila did not know. Within his veins rushed the blood of a monster, that wicked demon Haku — even if the pure-white Aston boy knew nothing of that father, nor his identity of his sister's actual murderer.
Finding inaction to be more worrisome and aggravating than not, Attila trekked by foot to AniWayan territory over the course of a few days, knowing the movement and fresh air to be good for his clogged and cloudy mind. Never had he felt such rage or known such heaviness in his shoulders; never had he spent a night alone without yearning for the company of another. The Aston did not seek out his mother, did not strain to learn more of activities past. His sister was dead, murdered. Her killers' identities, he believed, he knew. They would be struck down consequently, and in his bloodied fingers he would choke their hearts until they could beat no more.
But visiting AniWaya brought him no peace, either. Scents had changed just as the winds had, and at the tribe's borders he felt brutally unwelcomed. A different presence lurked there, and even in his solidarity he felt a discomfort within the air that signified heavy change. The boy wondered what had come of Dawali and the boy's brother Claudius — surely his stuttering brother would be unable to leave the tribe as his mother had. Attila decided to himself the two would need to meet up, so as to prevent that sibling's early demise as Noir's had been, but now was not the time. As quickly as he arrived, he turned and left, bound back for home. Until his mother could decide her actions and direct him to strike, he would remain idle. He would continue to move without aim, without purpose. Attila Aston had never been a creature without purpose before.
As dusk set, he settled near the edge of the Serena Reserve he had once known so well. Heaviness in his steps, the male ripped branches from nearby trees and piled them messily to create some sort of weak campfire. Attila stared into the flames in the oncoming night, and how he yearned for the courtesan's marijuana, yet not their company. Others would only destroy his focus. Others would only disgrace Noir's death further.