have at thee, brother

Skoll Haskel · 07-18-2012, 01:29 AM

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Skoll understood the whispers of change only in his gut. He understood it as a lower animal understood that the seasons were turning, through the eyes of ancestors who had experienced it generations and generations before him.

But he saw through his own eyes, too. The hierarchy was shifting—his own personal little hierarchy, the one that he had dominated from the moment he clambered over his siblings, squeaking, to his mother’s breast. His personality had been the strongest when they first started speaking; he had been the first to adventure out into the world, the first to gain a horse, the first to journey, the first to do a thousand things that would seem petty in a couple of years. He had been confident in his place on his own personal little throne. He was Skoll Haskel, son of King Vigilante, and Prince of Cour des Miracles.

He didn’t fail to notice that Lottie was spending a lot of time shadowing their father. He didn’t fail to notice that Hati was out and about more, becoming more confident, matching him in his growing understanding of the world.

The boy did not resent it, but the alpha inside of him took offense. It was purely instinctual, but it bubbled in his wolf’s heart, just as testosterone was bubbling in his growing body. All he was aware of was a pent-up, bitter energy that had been growing steadily over the days. He’d avoided contact with most of his friends and especially with his family. He was frustrated and didn’t know the source, and so he’d ventured past the stables and the little cabin to the training grounds, a wide dusty area dotted with wood figures to take his torment out on.

Skoll was doing just that, lashing at the burlap pelt of his foe, his werewolf claws raking through it and sending it rattling with the force of the blow. His lips wrinkled back, and he let out a guttural snarl—or what would become one in another year or so. This wasn’t the same clumsy batting and awkward ogling that was his sparring matches with Adelle, but an unleashing of raw energy that almost scared him.

But it felt good. Fighting felt good. He paused just for a heartbeat, brushing his hair out of his eyes, standing up on his toes, and struck again.

Word Count → 394

This post tries too hard to be dramatic, prolly 'cos I was listening to epic battle music while writing. And I was stuck on a thread title, and then my cousin started giggling and suggested this. 8|

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