Aplos Riverside

Moladion’s powerful, winding river...
Aplos River is a broad, slow-moving river originating from somewhere beneath the mountains of Spirane and feeding Iromar’s moors in the south. The northern parts of the river are known for their strong currents, with the water becoming slow moving in the south. The riverbanks vary along its course, ranging from soft hummock grasses to small groups of pine, and sometimes nothing but pebbles and sand. Crossing can be difficult at times, but it can be swam or bridged by fallen trees or boulders alike.

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Do not go gentle into that good night
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The blood is what calls to him even as he meanders across the frozen plains, through bottlenecked brush, and in the direction of the roaring river, now muted by frost and ice. Glorall was left unattended in his wake save for those who actually had power - Eden and such. Yet Blackthorne cannot be bothered to care so much about the title of King for he had his own musings, his own plans, wicked deeds yet unfulfilled. Onward he moves, jolting between grace and between an eerie rendering of his fathers own movements - jerky, jackal-like. He could switch personas as needed and time had begun to sharpen his skills. The way those charcoal eyes flashes silver beneath certain light, the way a sly smile could disarm as well as caution. So many variables but the most basic need of his was that of dominance.

He follows the trail that the boy leaves out for him, having skirted to the edge of the river and spied the droplets heading away from the moorland. For a moment he pauses, nose sniffing towards Iromar so that he can ascertain that Azariah still lies within. Then he moves away, paws crunching the snow carelessly as he trails the old blood. Until he spies the white boy lying in the snow. For a moment he pauses beneath the shadow of a sycamore tree, mostly just branches and snow now, to figure out if the boy is indeed dead.

Then he moves, flipping up and opening his eyes. His scent is similar to Zharko's and Thorne's eyes flare in suspicion and delight. The boy is young still but his growl sparks the fur on Blackthorne's neck to rise as he begins a slow glide out towards him, revealing himself with his head tilted between his shoulders, the silver cowlick atop his head backed by rising obsidian fur. His silver lips part upon a snarl in return as he stalks towards Zephyr.

"Who are you to snarl at the wind, boy?" His voice is sly, snakelike in quality as he begins a slow curve around Zephyr, tail high and head down, his eyes flashing as he takes in this half brother of his Commander. "The bastard son of a fallen king and Queen, I think," he continues, musing with a wicked grin. "One of many left behind, I've heard. The blood of your sister still warms my belly - I wonder, would yours taste just as bitter?"

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