Hideaway Strath to gaze upon you everyday but be denied your touch

Ceallach’s growls only serves to stimulate Roarke’s alacrity. The tundrian lived for this — the thrum of thrill and power that twine with the blood that pulses through his veins. He’s enjoying this, even as he and his masked brother grapple for victory with one another. In this moment they are titans as their teeth clash like the ring of swords as they lock in epic battle. Instead, they are hardly so refined, hardly so inspiring — they are just two cubs and their only desire is to play regardless of who — or if anyone at all — claims victory. Yet, for the warlord warrior in training this magnificence of visionary is not a far cry from becoming truth. Someday, he would become a titan, a warlord. For now, such things are secret desires he harbors in the quiet of night as he falls asleep to Lotte’s story of the Tundra. They become both lullabies and holy scriptures that Roarke aspires to emulate. There is a second of reprieve to draw in breath as Ceallach draws back and another second in which Roarke finds himself facing two tactics. He could stiffen his muscles and take his brother’s launch much like a battering ram (the Tundrian is strong in him and he is built to withstand such things even as a pudgy cub) or he could attempt to absorb the attack and let his brother topple him to the ground in feigned defeat. There is a heartbeat that passes and he loosens his muscles to absorb Ceallach’s launch and Roarke allows the momentum to push him down to the dirt. The worst of the fall is cushioned by baby fat and he lets out a small whine to set the deception. A few seconds pass and “Raaaahhhh!” tears from him as Roarke attempts to kick out at his brother with his hind legs.