Tirran’s claws were as black as his skin and fur. It was a deep, smoky black, shot through with streaks of muted gold that caught the orb light when he moved. His elongated snout, the bared black fangs, the unnatural angles of his joints — the intelligence in his movements made them worse. Unlike other beastkin, who carried either the weight of raw muscle or the effortless grace of natural hunters, Tirran’s movements felt … eerily calculated. His every movement carried the suggestion of something restrained. There was no good way of describing it, no singular thing Yu could point to. But something told him that Tirran was not simply being himself — he felt … like a lie. He was adjusting, modulating, slowing and dulling himself down, very deliberately reducing his presence as to not scare the utter shit out of everyone simply by being there.
And then, there were his eyes. Not just foreign. Not just beastlike. But utterly, utterly wrong. Lantern-lit citrine, slit-pupilled and sharp. They did not look or study. They held not the gaze of a guard, or even that of a hunter. Behind them was something that measured. Something that dissected.
On Tirran, those eyes just looked … wrong.
Very wrong.
It had been the first thing Yu noticed, and he had known right away that he would never ever in his life get used to it. Tirran had sat with them for only a few moments, mostly questioning the party about their journey: Had they seen anything unusual? Encountered any strange figures along the road? Orks and beasts were expected, yes, but had there been anything else? Traces of witches? No? Good. And just like that, Tirran had excused himself, slipping back to his post outside.
Yes, he had been polite.
Yes, he had been sociable, even.
But there was something deeply wrong about his eyes.
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