Generational Trauma

Driven by intrigue, and perhaps the instinct to defend in the face of danger, the boy is holding his ground, questioning Sephiran’s appearance with an inquisitive gleam in his eyes. Cocking his head slightly, Sephiran tips his chin downward, staring at Xairo down the barrel of his muzzle, lips twitching until they pulled back into a tight sneer. “Who am I?” He says, repeating his son’s words, as he raises a paw to shove the boy back onto his rump. “Your mother,” The word is dripping in disdain, but his contempt is not aimed towards Absinth, even if she’s who he’s referring to. “Failed to inform you of your Sultan?” Sephiran may have been Xairo’s father, but he was his Sultan first and foremost- an oppressive creature who demanded respect and compliance, even from the youngest members of his hoard. If he could not bow before his Sultan, Sephiran would force him to bend. Just as he did with Aurelia.

"Speech"