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He backed down rather quickly, like a pup scolded for wandering too far from the den. And of course he had committed that very crime numerous times, though such scoldings were few and far between, or so he always thought. Attila had been allowed much freedom as a child, enabling him to come and go as he wanted, and that constant adventuring played into his adult life, keeping the boy from settling anywhere too long. He was not a child anymore, and the boy had certainly hardened in his ways and morals, but his vision of his mother went unchanged. She had been nothing but loving with him, and he would—or should—treat her no differently. "I'm sorry," he said, ears flattened as he backed off, head dipped. He had always been quite the troublemakers, as evidenced to how he had treated his siblings, but never with his mother. After all, Noir and Claudius would thank him someday. He'd been rough with them to toughen them up. One of these days he'd jump Noir and she'd actually fight back, and what a day that would be. He sighed, then returned his iced eyes to her. "I left too," he said, as if that wasn't obvious enough. He'd been gone months, once again. Typical. "I found a place called Anathema," Attila puffed his chest, standing tall. "We live underground. Outcasts and misfits. I fit in better there than I ever did in AniWaya." He said that, of course, as if he'd already met the entire pack, which he hadn't. |
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