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Being older was good, Zarro thought. It meant he was definitely getting big enough that the grown-ups took him seriously when he talked (at least a little bit), and he was growing large enough that he could definitely make his bulk an impressive, believable threat. He still wasn't much inclined to follow through on the threats he was forced to issue, but he'd done so once or twice with his brother Cortez and that had shown his other siblings, especially his near-twin Omari and his bossy brother Schylar that he wasn't really a coward like they said.

Another nice thing about being older was that he was allowed to stay out of the den later, and so he was exploring the foliage of the pridelands in the opposite direction of the sea by the dimming light of the setting sun. It was the beginnings of the lands he would be forced to go out into when he was part of a crew, so he thought it might be a good idea to be more familiar with them. He was wishing now, though, as darkness fell, that he had brought a sibling or two with him. It was kind of scary being out on his own in unfamiliar territory.

Neltharion had seen hundreds of prides of mortals rise and fall in his long lifespan. They were little more than passing amusements, full of little scrambling things that thought they were in control of their own lives for the fleeting instants they were living them. Prides were good only for ransacking, he'd long since found. The more well established and unawares, the better.

Though occasionally one would catch his eye. One of the two newer budding prides in an area the god had visited betore had done just that. The two prides seemed to be eternally at war with each other. He could appreciate that. They loathed each other. And they both had a habit of pillaging and plundering. Perhaps if he were a mortal, he would have found some satisfaction in their small-scale conquests.

Unafraid, he was stomping through the forest outside the more temperate pride's borders. Trees fell as he shoved past them, and now and then a bush would smoulder before simmering out as its leaves caught flame on his sides. He paused, taking a deep rasping breath. Ahh. A cub? Dinner...

Unaware that he had not yet been seen, Pizarro could not tear his eyes away from the gigantic lion's eyes, which glowed like embers. He was absolutely certain that it was some kind of infernal flame which illuminated them, and that he had unwittingly crossed paths with some hellbeast. Or maybe...maybe he'd come across the leader of the Stormborn that Pirato had told him about.

The tiny bit of his brain which was capable of rational thought decided that this must be the case, and that the monster he was looking at (and who he believed to be looking at him) was the leader of the Stormborn. At that point his loyalties were torn between his body's incredibly pressing desire to cower or flee and the demands of his pride that he stand up to the hateful Stormborn. Except hadn't Pirato himself said that running away was the only acceptable way to deal with the Stormborn? Or that it was, at least, one acceptable way to deal with them?

Rational thought was crowded out once more when the infernal creature spoke. Convinced he was seen and addressed, Pizarro could do no more than stand there while the Stormborn spoke, hoping that he wouldn't really be eaten. He did believe, however, that he was likely to be eaten, and some primitive sense of self-preservation told his body to void his bowels.

In other words, he pissed himself.

...Well. That wasn't an entirely novel reaction to the god's mighty presence, but it was surely an unappetizing one. As an immortal he did not need to eat, but did it merely for pleasure and to torture and terrify mortals. Both those he ate and those who had to watch. He did not relish the idea of munching on some urine-soaked whelp.

H could still terrify him though. The stink did much to give the little lion away, and yes, there he was. Mustard yellow...how fitting for a little coward. Though no one in their right mind could blame the poor juve for being afraid.

"Aha...there you are." One step closed the gap between the two lions, and Neltharion looked down down down at the tiny mortal. "Now, answer my question. Didn't your dear mortal lump of a mother tell you not to go wandering? Hmm? Especially when your pride is at war. Though if I were you, I would beg to the gods for a Stormborn to appear right now...they at least might have SOME mercy..."

Pizarro absolutely believed the god (who he still thought to be a Stormborn) could kill him with a thought. It wasn't a power he'd ever heard of a Stormborn having in the stories told about them, but at the same time this was clearly no ordinary Stormborn. Or so it seemed to the fear-stricken cub. This was not even an ordinary lion. Ordinary lions did not have wings, nor did they seem to be alight with fire that burned from the inside.

Sniveling, Pizarro was aware that he had been insulted, but at the same time he was able to recognize that not being worth it meant that he would get to live. That was a good thing. But now he had no idea whether he ought to start thinking the Stormborn for sparing him or whether it would be best not to press his luck and simply run away and hide. Running away seemed like the more appealing option, really.

It also became the only viable option when the horror drew closer, talking about taking him away, letting him fall to his death, and...well...Pizarro had already turned tail and begun to run as fast as he could through the undergrowth toward the only place he could imagine being safe from this fiery fiend: the sea. He wasn't supposed to go too deep into the sea, but he didn't think that a being which was made out of fire would choose to pursue him into a great body of water like that. At least he was gambling on the hope that he wouldn't. If he was wrong...gods help him.

And look at that, the boy was off like the fiends of hell were on his paws. Which they were, actually. Neltharion loped after the object of his torment leisurely, his vastly longer legs made it simple to keep up, though the cub could go around trees, whereas the god had to leave a burning path of wreckage in his wake.

They soon broke out of the jungle and onto a shore. The god let out a roar to wake the dozing pride, surely, and chased the cub right to the water's edge. The waer wouldn't harm him, but the cub seemed to think it would...and the god was already about to burst from holding in his cruel laughter at the pitiful soggy thing that had once been a proud pirate cub.

With a belch of flame into the air, he flared his wings and locked eyes on the floundering cub. "Do not forget, whelp. You are no match for my kind. And one day I shall return, and have you, and your mother and father, and your own cubs, unless you accept that you are nothing in our eyes. Nothing but a pitiful mistake." With this last threat, he leapt up into the air, gliding away over the sea like some hell-born bat.