something somewhere out there keeps calling
SEEKING RAKUEN
|
Where the FUCK was Iason. The dark pharoah that had won the right to acknowledge Bright Moon as his own was pacing. PACING. The warboy with a history like none other was troubled over the small matter of where his Beta had gone. But it wasn't even the fact that Iason was gone that was bothering him the most. It was that he hadn't seen him since... Darcia stopped midstride, the heat rising to his hellish palette. A snarl escaped his kissers and he felt the irresistable urge to sink his teeth into something. DID HE THINK THAT DARCIA WAS JUST A PLAYTHING?! Oh HELL no. The regal allowed himself to have a moment of release, letting loose the most horrifying sounds of pent up anger he had ever held back. One thing was for sure. Whenever that bastard came back, Darcia was going to give the white archangel a piece of his mind. He'd probably kick his ass out of the pack. Not like that would help. Lately Bright Moon had been devoid of life, lacking in the most important way. What was a pack without wolves? It was just empty space marked as a private suite for a very socially awkward soul. Deciding that continuing to pace would probably not be the best idea, Darcia started to make his way in a specific direction, crushing the idea that his legs were only moving because of his troubles with his Beta. That was definitely not why he was so bothered today-- or at least, that's what he told himself. For a while, it seemed to work. And thankfully, just as Iason's presence missing (and his sarcastic comments and devious looks) came back up into his cranial, an unfamiliar cologne hit him square in the face. Was that-- was that within his own territory? Anger pierced the hellion's chest and without even noticing it, he was suddenly running as quickly as he could. Perhaps it was a daredevil challenger who decided that it wasn't even worth calling out the challenge. That the area was already his own. Darcia's wounds on the inside of his leg broke open as he was running, and the warm feeling of blood crept down his limb, dripping onto the ground and leaving a trail behind him. It didn't hurt. It was more annoying than anything. The one on his sternum he had found a way to care for by dunking himself in a relatively useful pond of water. Not that that was the most sanitary. But it wasn't like he could reach it himself; and he wasn't about to bother his few remaining packmates with cleaning his breast. The idea of Iason doing such a-- god. Fuck.
The moment he reached the scene, he heard an unfamiliar voice explain reasoning for being already inside the territory. I'm not trespassing. Finally stepping into view Darcia observed the scene with a grain of salt. It wasn't a challenger, and the anger and confusion immediately left the warboy's expression. His aura calmed back down to one of patience. By the unknown varg's expression, he knew exactly what he had done wrong. There was no need for Iso to point it out, but just as Darcia did not wish for her to, she did exactly that. I see you have stepped over the line. What is your business here? Darcia came to stand beside her, brushing his dark ebon covering up against her own cloak in greeting. Then his eyes went to the brujo's who had stepped past their boundary line. He tilted his head a bit at the view. How strange-- the periwinkle gaze of this hessain was not what caught his attention, it was the pupils within the coloring that snagged him by the throat. Not that he could really talk about strange eyes, having two different colored ones as his own... The question was not why his eyes were like that, but whether or not they impaired his vision at all. Based on the way that the male was not directly looking at Iso... they probably did. Darcia softened his gaze a bit. It wasn't pity. Heavens no. Darcia, despite his calm, collected and caring expressions, words and actions, was anything but the kind to show sympathy for others. Empathy was also a rare thing for him to show off in front of the world. Darcia was not as kind as he made himself out to be. He was changing, sure, but not enough to be a completely different person than he had been last year when he was still living with his god forsaken pack. It was an accident, Iso. This wasn't a chastising moment. Anything but. His words to her held no trace of 'good god' in them. They were simply there without the potential to be harmful. The monarch hadn't spoken in days, not even aloud to himself. His voice was husky, deep and unused. He felt the unfamiliar pang of embarrassment snag at his insides, pulling his stomach in unknown directions. Darcia would wait until the male had replied to Iso's question before he addressed him again, managing to shake off the grunge textures in his throat and continue as usual, strong and compassionate... but just as always, there was a single note that he just couldn't get to go away... one that hinted at the demon beneath the mask. What is your name, sir? I am Darcia, and your greeter is Iso.
darcia
|
|
