Hail to the King & Queen of the Ruckus

Redrum’s ears twitched sharply at the call, his muscles giving their habitual, unsettling spasms as he processed the summons. His breath hitched briefly, his golden eyes narrowing into thin, gleaming slits. His mother was calling for him. He must answer.

He barrelled on, intensity rippling beneath his crimson coat. His mind is silent, waiting for her voice to clarify all. When he finally arrived, his frame was spasmic yet relaxed, head low and gaze fixed on her. He circled her once, slow and predatory, his tail sweeping behind him. It might have been threatening to others, for him, it was his way of looking her over—her injuries and her physical state. He grimaced. Long ears falling flat, his shoulders hunching that much more in frustration of that which he could not mend.

"Mother...called?" he rasped, his speech its usual halting rhythm, both gravelly and low. He tilted his head, the motion sharp and almost birdlike, before he stopped his pacing, standing close, uncomfortably so, his gaze boring into hers. The faintest flicker of something—anticipation? Curiosity?—danced behind his golden eyes as he waited, every muscle taut like a bow string.



"Murder"