But Taijo didn’t say it.
Was a good boy his mama raised.
One who didn’t know about too-parl-ay-fancy and the whatsits.
The den was intruded by fat paws and big bones, and mirrored the vision of the same weak entry Jaxxon made into their home.
Small little shivers, cowering to his belly before facing his chest to the stone walls. Chest in and out, heart pumping out into twitches of the nose idly sniffing desperate around a long familiarized cave. His legs were pulled in neatly, an awkward shrug of the shoulder.
I’m Zacharie.
But hatred was taught and not birthed.
“..I’m Taijo.”
It’d always been that way.
“Who’s your mama?”

