Hideaway Strath the romans knew how to conquer land without fear

The small log lay in uneven chunks and soft splinters — some of which are tangled in the longer tendrils of his yet still achromatic pelage where his mane has begun to grow — as he ponders, still deliberating on whether he wanted to give up his (very rare) alone time in favor of a worthy sparring opponent. His consideration is broken by the sound of approach and the scent of rabbit, drawing his muzzle skyway to draw in the rich aroma of the prey animal and the scent that is heavily tied with it but he does not turn around. Not until he felt the boop on his butt. He turns around quickly, tail wagging behind him so hard that his butt wiggles from the momentum as he cranes his head back to look up at Hemlock. “Wittle lion?” He repeats, inquiring, tongue twisting on the word “little”. Roarke is not sure what a lion is but it sounds fierce and he abruptly decides that he likes being called a lion (even if it is a little one). “Raaaahhhh!” He roars at her and rears up on his hind legs in an attempt to boop Hemlock on the nose with his front paws. When all fours once more touch the ground whether or not his affectionate attack is a hit or a miss he remembers that she told him he fought too hard and he looks over his shoulder at the pieces of log with a terse frown. “Did I win?!” He asks her excitedly, seemingly unbothered that he has utterly decimated and brought to ruin the little log.