[size=9pt]Moon knows all too well of betrayal and hurt and loneliness. He remembers cold stares and a foreign language never shared with him, alcohol by the gallon and a Mother that'd sooner let him starve than spare him a glance. And that's exactly what happened. Starved from food and starved from attention, as a cub, he was aimless and angry. He'd sit, rigid, for days in the endless, dry plains and stare into the horizon, and on some days, the sun would blind him but he wouldn't look away. He'd feel it burn into his already golden gaze and turn everything white and he'd just keep staring. Sometimes he can still see the blank specks in his gaze of the damage he's sure he'd done.

He thinks he sees the same in Lazarus. Some mistreatment, perhaps a lot, some alientation but also perhaps a lot. A product of someone else's decisions, of someone elses faults. Sometimes he can feel the anger in himself and he thinks of his Mother, how it ran hot through her veins and passed onto his own, and when Moon spots the Cane Corso from afar he wonders if it's the same. Not from the hand of a Mother, but someone else, maybe. And then he looks back to their Clan, sees everyone laughing and joking and smiling and feels wrong. Why the fuck is this kid sitting here like this and no one's even sparing him a thought? Do they even know he's there?

"Hey," Says the young Lion, a grab for attention as he stops a pace or two away. He's seen the viciousness in Lazarus when Gabe had left, and he doesn't want to trigger that again, and though he itches to look the canine over, to see his wounds and treat them, he knows it's just not gonna' happen. Start with the mundane shit. "Wanna' tell me what you're up to?" He probably didn't.

[size=9pt]Moon'll be honest; he wasn't surprised in the slightest. In fact, his face remained completely unpertrubed, blank with one brow raised. Perhaps it was the sleepless night that had left him this way; lacking a smile or mollycoddling he'd typically get up to. Like this, he was flat. He listens to the foreign language and, this time, doesn't even bother himself asking for a translation. He doubts he'd get one, anyway. "Para de whatever." He says, and carries himself on heavy paws to the wall that Lazarus sits at. The canine's growl lands on deaf ears and Moon drops himself a space or two away from him, facing towards the grassy plains instead of looking the dog in the eye. So what if he lunged for him; maybe Moon was asking for it. It's not like he couldn't patch himself up.

"Probably. But I tend not to pick the better things." He says, failing to stifle a yawn that rips through his words. "So you got me. Consider yourself lucky. There's a whole lot worse fuckers in this place you could've ended up with."

The sound of the wood across the ground gets his attention and, cartoonish, he flicks his gaze to it without moving his head. He's a curious dumbass, that much he knows, and some day he'll get himself killed for it. No self control, no filter, no care. But now, he stares the wood down and considers that maybe he should respect Lazarus' privacy and not dive for it liked a starved woodpecker. He stays seated, claws latched into the ground, and tries for an alternative route in. "It's not a secret portrait, is it? You carving me, tortured artist? 'Paint me like one of your french girls' type shit? I'm flattered."