Neverwinter Forest The beams of first light [Birth (M)]

Cypress, in his grief, had made no effort to meet his brother’s mate. In truth, he had made no attempt to interact with any of the wolves newly come to the pack — not even Amari, about whom his feelings were conflicted and frightening. He was too preoccupied with actively avoiding his cousins and his aunt to really focus on anything else. What could he possibly say to them? He had already written off his uncle as dead, along with Scimitar, Eshe, Lucy — and Rannoch. The raven had long forgotten what it was to hope.

The heavy scent of blood lured him, with a morbid sense of curiosity, to his brother’s den — a place he had seen in passing but never purposefully visited. The wraith paused before entering the hallowed clearing, fully expecting a litter of cubs that looked like Rannoch to be bumbling about, covered in fur, with open eyes and erect ears. After all, the turquoise-eyed little tin soldier he remembered with such painful fondness was his only reference to draw upon. Kaskara and Kieran’s children had been older, walking and talking before Scimitar and Eshe’s boys had taken their first breaths. With sudden, breathtaking clarity, Cypress knew that Kjalarr’s children, female or male, would steal away the only things he felt he could count on: his last vestiges of importance to the forest and, more importantly, Kjalarr’s affection. Scimitar and Eshe’s deaths had given Cypress a new word to add to his vocabulary and identity: orphan. Kjalarr’s cubs, on the other hand, could war with Cypress’ cousins for royal status. They were Neverwinter Forest’s princes and princesses now.

The thought, while sobering, did not necessarily trouble Cypress — although he was uncertain about his new standing in Kjalarr’s life, the alluring dance of hierarchy and dominance had evaded him thus far. The first tendrils of it gripped him as he came upon a strange scene: Kjalarr, blocking the denmouth like a sentinel carved of starsilver, his Caribbean eyes darkened by emotion that Cypress did not yet have the life experience to read fluently. A ragged creature in ratty brown tatters trespassed upon the forest alpha’s person, nuzzling the crux of neck and shoulder. Cypress watched, his eerie yellow eyes impassive even as the seadog’s tongue slipped from betwixt yellowed canines to caress and comfort — and suddenly the gesture reminded him of Eshe, welcoming Scimitar home after a long hunt. The phantom wasn’t near enough to catch Maude’s scent, and his first impression of the pirate was a rather inconvenient mistake.

It was on the tip of his tongue: “You must be Ondine. Where are your children?” The raven couldn’t muster the breath to put voice to the query, though, and he merely watched from a distance, taking in the freshly turned soil. “Kjalarr,” he said, the words sticking in his throat, “d-did — are they — ” His thoughts tumbled rapidly about — “Are Kjalarr’s cubs dead? Did anybody bother to bury my parents? Is this really Ondine? Why isn’t she fat? Where are her puppies? Do they look like Rannoch? Where will I belong now?” — and he drew a breath to steady himself. He felt awkward and out of place and was suddenly eager to be gone from this place. “You — are you Ondine?” he asked of the unkempt pirate, tall ears flattening in confusion.