Moonspear In all the good times, I find myself longing for change.

a year before, mahler had cultivated himself as the vision of strength before all whose eyes might behold him. it had been a poor foundation, to build upon perceptions and projections; the past months had grueled him into a towering haggard creature — and he knew it.
but mahler knew it would be both unfair and illogical of him to clutch for the barest hint of moonspear's regard outside of his title and his mannerliness. his daughters crowded close, and mahler felt a sob constricting his throat. he motioned his lioncubs forward with a smile that attempted to be encouraging, relieved in some way by nyx and her connections of family here.
in her ability to keep them safe he had no doubt; in hydra's domain, they would be fiercely protected. and there would be no lingering specter in the lioness' mind of their place. 
he had not been able to do that for her.
mahler looked aside from the meeting to the green forestcloak moonspear wore about its shoulders. a proud, ancient place, with a history that for all his efforts he had not managed to bestow. not in diaspora, not in sagtannet, and now not within the taiga.
such a birthright for his children. he glanced at both of them in turn now, unable to muster more than a muted observation of their acceptance.