Neltharion was not pleased. The Nergui were on the move.
Without his permission, without his say! Traitors, the lot of them! his gnarled mind whispered, in voices and tones not wholly his own. Slash them, make them fear, they move without your will, and would will your death if they could! The voices shrieked, and the lion-god snarled as he sank in the shape of a great black cloud towards the vagabond's pride's edges. The cloud dispersed into nothingness—Neltharion was amply strong to protect himself, but the pride hunted gods, and he would not give them the pleasure of even spotting him. When he stepped out from behind a large stone, he wore the form and shape of a common, dull gray lion. He might be insane, but he wasn't stupid. He hadn't gone eons without a rebirth out of luck.
A lioness in a half-skull spotted him at once, and came towards him with the sort of dutiful obedience usually seen in a soldier regarding their captain. She was bright enough not to make a scene about it, or to look overly cautious either. Always one of the brighter of his children, Neltharion was sure, though that wasn't saying much. A pity she was mortal, really. He'd had thought about that but...No. She was not worthy, in any way. Still, if it could be done, perhaps she would be the one he'd lend a claw in doing it. Still loyal, make her loyal, more power for us... Together they stepped behind the rock, and without a word he twisted back on himself, slapping out with claws longer and harder than any normal lion would end his paw with.
Brilliant red blood splattered against the side of the of the stone outcropping, and the skull she wore clattered to the ground, making him snarl and lash out again. How dare she make sound (even if it was not her intention) in his presence without permission!? Sharp blue eyes turned back to regard the male, and the lioness flicked the loosed bit of hair from her eyes, sending more red droplets flying. More scars; signs of her father's favor and fury.
"The pride is on the move." It was part statement, part accusation, and in no way a question. He knew it as well as she did, but his tone pointed blame at her. Why were they moving on, and why hadn't she stopped it? As if she could have.
"Yes. The desert lions gave as well as they received, it seems. The pride is hungry for easier pray."
He snarled at the implications. There would always be disfavor and low-burning hatred in the hearts of lions, but none was so rich, so great in quantity as that hatred evoked by war. He would still reap from this pride, but his tithe was to be reduced. From the fire-coated desert lions as well! His daughter wisely stepped back, forcing herself to duck her head, capitulating to the one being she thought greater than herself in the world.
There realistically was very little she could have done to try to stop the migration. At best she might claim to have had a vision, but even that was a risk, and probably not nearly enough to halt the pride. If and when her words were found false, then she'd find herself disfavored by the pride. And by her father, which was imminently more dangerous. No, she was more or less helpless, and she knew it, and he knew it. And it pleased neither of them.
Neltharion himself could probably do more, but unless he felt it worth revealing himself...no. The pride would move on, resettle for a time, and find new prey. Perhaps even other gods to devour if they were unworthy. The god of hatred would simply have to be patient.
He did not like to be patient.
For a time the pair spoke, voices lowered despite their twin irritation. Plans for future days, reports on those of potential value in the pride, and demanding jabs meant to reveal if the pride had begun to sink any claws into the daughter's hide. Imperfect mortal that she was, he knew there was pressure to conform on her. He'd bred her better than that though, and had raised her even stronger. She would not fail him (he would rend her flesh from her bones and take it back into himself before it came to that) if either of them could help it, and despite this setback their plans were more or less unchanged.
She would continue to do what she could while remaining unnoticed. Her failure to please him would leave her with more and more scars until she ran out of fur to peel back, and she knew it. It was the only real way he knew how to motivate, with threats and terror, but his blood was her own and she responded well to it. Her own claws would shed the blood of others to release the pain he gave her back out into the world where it would be useful. She was not a warrior, true, but she was large and savage and willing to die rather than dishonor her heritage. Perhaps a local male would find she caught his eye, she mused. That could provide entertainment enough. Someone stupid enough to come willingly into her claws, thinking behind lay anything but raw disdain, that she could pick at and play with in the manner of any cat with a mouse.
And he would, of course, return. He would never lose track of the pride, even if somehow his daughter were slain. The Nergui by nature hated those that were not themselves, and would shine like a beacon wherever they roamed. Still, he had bred his sons and daughters to do his work, and if she knew what was good for her, she'd manage to stay alive. That was the message he sent her back to the pride with, before ghosting away once more.
(WC: 1006)
