Wakanda has but one season: an eternal summer that, regardless of the months, generally accompanies tepid weather and soft blue skies. At the same time, the ecological chemistry of the nation never yields, always changing, always evolving, often through abrupt means. It's both comforting and startling, though most of its civilians have grown to appreciate the tentative nature of their homeland. So when T'Challa returns to the Mountain of Tshintsha, he doesn't linger on the newly grown green carpeting the land. Instead, he kicks off his sandals, rolls back his shoulders, and takes a step forward.

The soil beneath his feet, damp from the storm the night before, is welcoming and familiar despite the changes of the mountain. As he brushes through a canopy of crescent leaves, he's unable to repress a smile, vaguely recognizing the tree from earlier visits. The feathery touch of the leaves against his cheek greets him like an old friend, nostalgic and curious; they seek him out, eager to provide an ear to his humble lips and evoke memories of leaves of a different color and different shape but still, to its roots, the same greenery.

T'Challa is in the midst of admiring a cluster of budding torch lilies when the distinct sound of hooves treading upon the ground meets his ears. Drawing his hand away from the flowers, he turns and finds a Boer goat hunched over the fringe of a stream pool. He takes a hesitant step forward, and the goat's head shoots up, whipping around to stare at him.

There's nothing peculiar about it; he's spent lifetimes exploring these mountains and becoming acquainted with the local fauna. On more than one occasion, T'Challa has actually drawn the attention of these goats and spent hours scaling the mountain with them by his side.

Only this time, there's no fear of frightening the creature. Rather, there's an unruly hunger dispersing from his stomach and crippling his legs. The world turns black, black like a vial of ink spilling over an impassive sheet of paper; the goat, a focal point against a dismal canvas, takes a step back, expelling the smoky aroma of fear. Waves of orange wash off of it and reach T'Challa's nose violently, shoving through his nostrils with intent. Perplexed by the onslaught, he growls and pounces to his feet. The goat bleats and starts to gallop away. Its hooves have just collided with the ground when T'Challa soars through the air and hops onto its back.

The blood is metallic as it splatters against his tongue and his fangs snap around the goat's neck. Scrambling in T'Challa's hold, it lets out strangled bleats and kicks at his stomach. The movement accomplishes little aside from making T'Challa bite harder and reach for the goat's leg. With a sharp twist, the petite limb snaps and dangles in the air. Growling contentedly, he then gives the goat a kick to the head; the critter falls still, and T'Challa surges forward, tearing through its fluffy stomach.

The goat's organs are slimy and far too small to soothe his appetite. But as T'Challa shovels them down his gut, tearing sinews and ligaments in the effort, he finds himself more concerned with the taste rather than the texture. Bitter and rich and vulnerable, it's consuming a feast he hadn't known he'd been anticipating. The mere thought of eating anything other than meat makes him more persistent in his quest, makes him descend further into the primal madness afflicting him. His previous admiration of the mountain displaced, T'Challa eagerly devours the goat until it's drained of all life.

And it's only when he flexes his fingers through the goat's stomach and finds it empty does he stop. It's only when, upon realizing he's not satiated and is tempted to seek out another meal, does he toss the limp carcass away. It's only when he looks down at himself and finds his robes coated with blood does he come back to himself. When he does, he gulps, shakily crawls to his feet, and stumbles down the lush mountainside and into the palace.

. . .

"Okay. This is...strange."
T'Challa scoffs and jerks his hand away from Shuri. It's sticky with dry blood, and the claws have yet to retreat. Placing it upon Shuri's newly polished table is warrant for death, so he settles for dropping it into his lap. He taps his foot against the floor, lifts his lips up to show her his fangs, and gives her a pointed look. "'Strange'?" He lowers his voice and whispers, "Shuri, I just mauled an animal the size of a small child. Do you not think 'strange' is a bit of an understatement?"
Shuri twirls her hand and nods at the anatomical modeling footage displayed on her tablet. "Of course. Please, do forgive me, dear brother. That was an inappropriate response to such a purr-rendous situation."
"Shuri."

"Oh, settle, pussycat." She rolls her eyes, places her tablet on her desk, and chuckles. "I'm not understanding what the fuss is about. So you got a little hungry. You ate, and you're better now. Problem solved." Shuri walks towards the window and glances down at the wide expanse of land stretching before them.

"Not if it happens again." T'Challa rises from his seat, groaning at the sound of his blood-soiled pants sticking to the leather cushion of his seat. He shudders, glances over his bio-scan, and reaches forward. The screen warbles beneath his fingers and magnifies to further display his heart. Gulping, he watches the throbbing of the lurid organ and glosses his tongue over his lips.

Shuri, catching the subtle gesture, swipes her hand over the desk; the model scatters, dots zipping about in various directions until the image fades and the desk reassumes its modest appearance. "Brother", she asks, slowly creeping her hand across the desk to rest upon T'Challa's once more. "Is it happening again?"
T'Challa blinks and shakes his head. "No, no. I'm fine. For the moment."
"Right." She leans against the desk, weight resting on her forearms. "Perhaps, you should return to your quarters. Some rest could do you some good. That and James-"
"James." James's flushed, exhausted face flashes behind T'Challa's eyelids. He'd fallen ill the night before and, according to regular check-ins through their kimoyo beads, had spent most of the day in bed. Their last check-in had occurred just a few minutes before the goat incident. And with his beads discarded somewhere on the mountain, there was no way of knowing the quality of his condition.

"You're going to hurt yourself with all this worrying", Shuri inputs as she gives T'Challa's shoulder a tender shake. "Now, the royal guards have been checking in on him every hour since you left. He's fine. A little grumpy and gross, but he's fine." Feeling the tension in his shoulders, she gives him a firmer shake and uses her free hand to gain his eyes. When he at last turns to face her, she tilts her head and says, "Trust me. He's fine."

T'Challa looks back down at the desk and frowns. "Is it...safe for me to see him?"
"Absolutely." Then, narrowing her eyes, she says, "You are going to tell him, aren't you?"
"Yes, yes, of course. Just not now."

"T'Challa-"
"He doesn't need to know", T'Challa cuts in with an impatient wave of the hand. "He's still recovering, and he should be focused on getting better."
"Uh huh." Shuri crosses her arms and glares. "So I'm not worried enough, he's not supposed to be worried at all, and I'm supposed to sit here and let you stress yourself into a coma?"
He sighs and rubs a hand over his mouth. His eyes flutter shut, and he purses his lips, forcing himself to focus on the lively sounds of technology surrounding him rather than the rising bubble of frustration rising within him.

"You need to calm down", Shuri insists, dropping a hand on his shoulder. When he opens his eyes and meets her gaze, she gives him a small, reassuring smile and lowers her hand to his forearm. Giving the arm a gentle, firm squeeze, she then says, "I know you're freaking out. I'm freaking out, too."
T'Challa raises an eyebrow. "Could have fooled me."
Shuri chuckles and playfully pushes him away, hopping off her desk and turning around to dig through one of the drawers. She retrieves a small notebook and looks back up at him. "I'm curious, but that doesn't mean I'm not worried. It's not everyday your brother mauls a goat and begins displaying feral traits, you know. And grows a pair of whiskers, I might add."

She hands him the notebook, which he accepts with a reluctant sigh. "I don't have whiskers", he murmurs as he flips through the pages. When he finds them to be empty, he looks up and asks, "What's this?"
"Not yet. And it's for documentation."

"Documentation?"
"Well, I'm assuming you want to keep this on the hush-hush. If that's the case, I'm the only one who can help you figure out exactly what all", she points to his claws and fangs, "that is and how to make sure we don't repeat what happened with the goat."
T'Challa slides the notebook into his pocket. He leans over the table and, with an amused smirk replacing the taut expression, says, "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Most definitely." She glides her hands over the desk and smiles when the model reemerges. "It'll make for some perfect puns."

"..."

"Starting now." She beams and folds her hands in front of her. "That was an accident."
"Sure it was." T'Challa shakes his head and starts for the exit. Ignoring Shuri's knowing stare and the growing tightness in his chest, he pushes through the vibranium-rich door. It closes behind him with a resounding slam, and, when he finally reaches his quarters, he makes sure to make a note of his newly sensitive ears.