the lost art of staying alive

Children were blessings. Pure, innocent bundles of joy, untainted by the evils of the world. Open slates. And yet since the birth of Cataleya's whelps, somehow all that he could think of was blood. Bright red painted the corner of his vision, taunting him, tearing at the very fabric of his reality. For some time, his frustrations has centered on Cataleya, the woman that had claimed him -- but with time he began to open his eyes and really see. But it was not she who deserved his anger, his malice; instead, she had grounded him and given him purpose, even if it was not exactly what he had planned for himself. Today he felt particularly restless, and would slip from the den quietly and into the rapidly fading sunlight.

Winter would be here soon, and it was blatantly obvious. The air was frigid and harsh and the wind that swept across the land was biting. Ears would flatten against his skull as he carried himself forth, shoulders hunched forward and head lowered to protect him from the cold. Amethyst eyes swept the landscape as he walked, searching for shelter from the chill -- he needed to be alone for a bit, away from Cataleya and her children. It wasn't long before Basilisk saw a promising sliver of darkness near the base of the mountain nearby. With ease he would slip into the depths of the cavern, thankful for the familiar darkness and silence that engulfed him.