everything I let go
Erebos giggled with delight as the husky wheeled around his feet, but couldn’t be immune to Orsino’s concern once it was laden through the bond enough. “Sorry bud,” he whispered, picking the frost fox up and prospering him along his shoulders, fluffy tail now in his face, as the dog was called to heel. “How come you named him Goose?” A funny name – because the furry fiend wasn’t even close to the waterfowl – but maybe that had been the point of it.
When the woodcutter didn’t seem perturbed by the endless slog of inquiries, the youth continued his sporting grin, ambling over to another pile of branches and brambles long since tossed about by the wind, shoving them into his bag or breaking off portions so they were easier to handle. Orsino struck a careful balance of glaring at Goose or maintaining his foothold on the child’s jacket, claws dug in. “Well that’s good! Did you make them have funny faces?” Half the time anything occurred around the youth was out of a source of amusement, a pattern he’d inherited from both parents.
His eyes swept up when Iskra employed his tools though, a little mixture of awe wrapped in his signature smile. “Oooh – do you like using your ax in battle too? I’ve seen some do it in the barracks. Dad won’t let me have a sharp weapon yet,” and he sighed, rolling his eyes, as if not granting a seven-year-old leave of many serrated armaments was a harsh decree. “Just the wooden ones.” But even then they were fun to swing around and practice with, and he had many dreams of hitting Marcus with one in the back of his knees.
Being told his run was impressive earned significant merit and credence towards Iskra, and the boy was suddenly carrying himself much taller, reaching for higher branches and breaking off ends. For one who’d rarely sat in silence, the notions of lumberjacking were swiftly cut from the list of potential, future employment endeavors. “Oh. It’s really hard to be quiet sometimes.”
When the woodcutter didn’t seem perturbed by the endless slog of inquiries, the youth continued his sporting grin, ambling over to another pile of branches and brambles long since tossed about by the wind, shoving them into his bag or breaking off portions so they were easier to handle. Orsino struck a careful balance of glaring at Goose or maintaining his foothold on the child’s jacket, claws dug in. “Well that’s good! Did you make them have funny faces?” Half the time anything occurred around the youth was out of a source of amusement, a pattern he’d inherited from both parents.
His eyes swept up when Iskra employed his tools though, a little mixture of awe wrapped in his signature smile. “Oooh – do you like using your ax in battle too? I’ve seen some do it in the barracks. Dad won’t let me have a sharp weapon yet,” and he sighed, rolling his eyes, as if not granting a seven-year-old leave of many serrated armaments was a harsh decree. “Just the wooden ones.” But even then they were fun to swing around and practice with, and he had many dreams of hitting Marcus with one in the back of his knees.
Being told his run was impressive earned significant merit and credence towards Iskra, and the boy was suddenly carrying himself much taller, reaching for higher branches and breaking off ends. For one who’d rarely sat in silence, the notions of lumberjacking were swiftly cut from the list of potential, future employment endeavors. “Oh. It’s really hard to be quiet sometimes.”
Erebos
has claw marks on it
