Word Count » 3+
He rose with the sun, having slipped away into sleep a few hours prior. It was not in the King's nature to sleep much longer than those sliding moonlit graces - He was a hunter, and the night was just as comfortable to prowl as the day.
Yellowed teeth glinted in a yawn as the hybrid stretched, his four legs stiff with sleep. Although this feral form was less proffered than that of civility, without appropriate bedding of yet, it was far more comfortable to sleep curled in the bearhide coat when his spine was lucid and canid in structure. One awake, he shifted - Bones and muscles slid into place, into the charming structure of handsome gentry he adored the most.
One of the slaves had delivered a wooden bowl of water to his doorway, and Sirius kneeled, scooping water in cupped palms and guzzling it to ease the dryness in the back of his throat. The man splashed his face and rubbed hands across the back of his neck, sniffing pensively as he gazed out the chamber doorway to the cool glow of the rising sun.
His chamber was cold, and empty. Colder and emptier eyes grazed it as, with the smooth ease of habit, the Thistle King strapped one hunting dagger to his thigh with cured doe tendons. The throne-room no longer smelt of Tlantli - his own dominant scent covered that, easily enough - but his mind had yet to be rid of her so easily. He had succumbed to bodily needs, allowed control to slip from graces in the form of anger and lust. It couldn't be allowed to happen again.
Such reflection put the ruler in a sour, brittle mood. He strode through crumbling stone and skeletal pillar with all the grace of a wildcat, a monarch well aware of his own prowess. Arrogance was a part of the Boss' nature, and it sat handsomely on his dark features. Prowling eastward, it came as a surprise when acidic olive sights landed on the weary form of a man he had not seen for a half-moon, now. The irritability in his form melted away, replaced with energetic eagerness, and a sharpness of concentration and gaze that commanded attentiveness. With spry steps, the Thistle King leaped the nearest crumbling wall, and strode across to the other male. "Itachi." Pupils narrowed in cunning gaze, hungrily reading the weariness in the gold man's features.
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