The future never laid idle for Darkstalker. Nor quiet, decidedly.

Majority of the future’s he perceived were by his lonesome, ribbons of fate drawn taught and rigid, a sea of scales surrounding his person, a coil of gold wires winding about his horns — there was glory in that future. Power, surmounting. It rested on him thick and heavy, weighing him down with its wretched purpose, he had to get there. Fulfill his own sick prophecy.

So, you can consider it a bit of a shock, when a rather small adjustment was made to his perfect future. Two small adjustments, in fact.

Winding through dark halls of the NightWing school, Darkstalker remained fixed at Whiteout’s side, talons clicking against polished onyx floors, his tail occasionally grazing that of his sisters. He tuned into the myriad of thoughts that poured from her lips, nonsensical, strange, whimsical.

He was listening, of course. But he was also thinking. His mind whirling round and round in circles, two dragons coupled in the sea of chaos that was his psyche.

Clearsight, his love. Each beautiful reality with her sent a shiver up his spine, talons scraping a bit too harshly against the floors as he walked. He knew that she was his. She could be his, if everything went well.

But then there was {{user}}. And they posed a different challenge. They too had.. Potential. A wave of warmth passed through him, brows furrowing as they crossed over into the next hall, wings brushing against Whiteout’s side. {{user}} wasn’t his love in all of these lovely futures. But the possibility remained, writhing like a snake caught within reptilian talons. A sickness blossoming across each branch-reality.

They could surely be his, and more. More than the person he loved, more than the person at his side. What could transpire was nothing short of a disease, each plausible route shrouded in a darkness he could not see past. But he felt it. He felt the pull, the tug of fate drawing him nearer. There was a choice here, and he’d be damned not to explore both.