He was born screaming. Rage, rage, raging at the world, at every thing around him. Natiya cowed before him, Sarabi gave him spiteful eyes, and Underidge detested his very existence. It was none of that which DEFINED Blackthorne - he was an anomaly. A manifestation of red hot fury that built and swirled within the womb of his mother, coming out full of venom and spitting malice. It is his intelligence that makes it all the worse. If he had been a dumb brute, perhaps he would amount to nothing, content in the little things in life, such as his father seemed to be. A follower. A believer. But he did not want those things. He wanted to be the thing others followed. The one others believed in.

Power - he craves it. The domination, the arrogance of it, and the sparks between him and Eden are dangerously close to setting Glorall ablaze. His charcoal eyes flash in restrained derision as Eden mocks him. Mocks! It is an affront to his pride yet Thorne refrains, for just a moment, from striking. A snake that coils but his youth means he is a bit impetuous. Eden has had years to stew, to grow, to learn. What he has done with it amounted to very little, in the opinion of Blackthorne, but age could lend a hand in a few things.

His sneer is met with the coiling of lips, Blackthorne's face turning into something truly wicked and ugly, the darkness within him swirling in those eyes that flash silver and back. Underidge might one day wonder if the Shade, his very own god, had given birth to this demonic child. His restraint only lasts so long and then he strikes, aiming, and Eden recoils only slightly. He is King here - his dominion absolute. His rule, by title, demanding obedience.

But Thorne doesn't care.

Rules and stipulations are meant for those who follow. He would blaze his own trail. He would bring forth the darkness in his soul and set this world ablaze in black flames, tear it asunder. He snarls down at him, muzzle coming down towards Thorne's own, and the boy does not shrink. The feel of teeth scraping, bursting against the silver of his muzzle makes his eyes sharpen, his own growls rising in response.

Let the blood flow, if it must. A little blood letting could not deter him. It is his words that begin a haunting refrain in the skull of the crazed boy. Eden's words work him into a frenzy, his own teeth flashing in response, biting at the bottom of Eden's jaw each time it comes down. Responding in the manner of a puppy but with viciousness - if Eden wishes to put him in his place, so be it, but he will not go quietly into the night. He will not be put into the corner and be happy about it. He will leave his mark.

"I'll have my taste, old man," he says, his voice eerily smooth and suave despite the river of hatred that shines bright across his twisted face. "I'll taste and I'll consume and then I'll do the same for you." A malicious mirth dances at the edge of his voice but his snarl does not make way for a smile or a smirk. But it is there - in those flashing eyes. "You are his master but you'll not be mine. I'll set aside these chains, even if it means chewing on their bones." His bones. Underidge's. Anyone who stood in his path.

A line in the sand was being drawn, the time fast approaching. Who would blaze the brightest?