VIOLENCE, it seemed was imbedded so deeply within the culture of society in Destarin, that Dracoth should have been more forgiving. But then, unlike violence, the quality of forgiveness was not imbedded in the natural social order of Destarin. So, perhaps it should be expected that Dracoth would meet violence with violence.
As Harin's older brother, he was naturally very protective, but this natural instinct was fiercely intensified by Harin's stop over with death. There had been no guarantee that Morana's macabre craft would be successful, and the looming dread of a world without his younger brother had taken it's toll on the Incubi. The mourning, the yearning, the loss - however temporary - had been almost overwhelming. Dracoth had every intention of devoting his life to avoiding feeling anything akin to it. He had endeavoured to assist Morana every way he could during the process of resurrection, and believed he had done so. Now Dracoth endeavoured to preserve the life of his younger sibling, to the point of pickling him if need be.
"Hold. Your. Tongue." Dracoth smirked as he growled the command from behind the vender. Utilising the near last of his enhanced speed and strength on a nameless vendor had not been a part of his predictions for the day, but this was what it was to be an elder brother, sacrifice. As the old man had spat, Dracoth had practically vanished from the doorway he loitered in, reappearing from behind the man. He had reached one long arm around, emerald claws slithering into the man’s mouth with inhuman speed, and grabbed a wet, defenceless tongue between the sharp claws of Dracoth's forefinger and thumb.
Blood sprung from the vendor's mouth, as he instinctively tried to pull away from Dracoth's grip. The red liquid combined with his saliva and began trickling down his chin and onto his clothing.
"Ah, my good man, I would stop struggling if I were you! Harin," Dracoth turned to look at his handsome younger brother, warmth in his dark eyes and a genuine smile on his lips. Despite the absolute horror that the vendor was experiencing as he struggled to stay still and not choke on the well of blood pooling in his mouth, Dracoth looked only joyous to see his brother out and about.
"You escaped the corpse bride, glorious!" Dracoth was teasing of course, for he respected Morana and was glad for her keen focus on Harin. She had the time and apparently the inclination to babysit his once dead brother, which gave Dracoth the privilege of only enjoying his time with Harin and of course returning him to Morana when Dracoth grew bored or hungry.
"Are you planning on eating that or this man?" Dracoth asked nonchalantly. He knew Harin understood little of what he said, but the vendor would understand if he could only hear over the sound of his own outraged cries of pain. "I still don't know what your diet is brother, but we could make a grand feast of this fellow. Picture pan seared forearm paired with caramelised ears!" As Dracoth painted a very visceral image for the vendor to consider, the old man quietened considerably and stared nervously between Harin and Dracoth.
Tormenting people was something Dracoth felt he had some considerable expertise in. After all, he was an elder brother, and a rather competitive elder brother at that. A younger brother, even a mortal one as Harin had once been, had always presented the real threat of taking centre stage, stealing attention Dracoth thought was owed to him. Sadly, Dracoth could therefore recount many a story where he had sabotaged his brother, teased him to the point of tears, or terrorised him with nightmares. Even into adulthood, Dracoth had made a point of bragging of his sexual conquests to Harin, even seducing women he knew were interested in Harin. Most of it had been subconscious, but Dracoth was not entirely ignorant of his behaviour.
The guilt had eaten away at Dracoth from the moment he first heard of his brothers death. All those years he had misused by bullying and competing with him, when he should have been guiding him, protecting him, preparing him. Now, Morana's necromancy had given Dracoth a most precious gift; a chance to do it all over again, and rightly. The chances of Harin returning with no memory only made the project easier because he did not look at Dracoth and anticipate petty cruelty. He had looked at Dracoth when they first reconciled, with new eyes, blank eyes. Together, they could paint an entirely new brotherly bond. One built on mutual respect and trust... and possibly a little awe, if Harin were so inclined to begin to look up to Dracoth with admiration, that would be a perk Dracoth could live with.
"No? Not interested, perhaps just the apple then?" Dracoth queried with a detached kind of curiosity.
The vendor began to plead with Dracoth, and then again with Harin, unaware of the various nuances to the predicament they found themselves in. It did not occur to Dracoth that it might be foolish to present himself as a hero to Harin, by terrorising an old man whose only crime was assault, a common enough incident in Destarin. It did not occur to Dracoth that this might be a poor example of behaviour to be setting for Harin. Neither of these things occurred to Dracoth because none of what he was doing was atypical, in fact, he considered it the norm that Harin would have to accustom himself to. This was Destarin. They were all criminals here, and one fought violence with elevated violence.
Increasingly frightened, the vendor spluttered, struggling to not breathe in the noxious mixture of blood and saliva. He begged with little success for Harin to keep the apple, and Dracoth listened only half engaged. The other half of his focus was squared solely on Harin.