Neverwinter Forest an eidolon named night

Very short posts to get all of my threadlogs up to date. ♥ I am sorry for the lack of quality and length.

The Neverwinter fledgling had spent the day sparring, racing, and wandering with Rannoch, and every last bit of energy had been wholly wrung from his growing body. He sprawled on the den floor in a puddle of dirty black fur — his paws ached with exertion, the tender pads still soft and unaccustomed to the long miles their adventures had added up to; his ribs hurt from the repeated losses he’d suffered in sparring with his barrel-chested brother; even his nose seemed painful from the sheer amount of new scents they’d catalogued today. He wanted nothing more than to sleep and not feel anything at all, but every time his muddy yellow eyes drifted shut, another thought occurred to him that had them flying open again. He shifted with a discontented grunt, trying to figure out what exactly was wrong with him. He didn’t think he was sick.

Cypress possessed an intense need to understand the world around him — but every time he thought he knew all there was to know, something changed. He met someone new, or he felt something different, or he went somewhere unfamiliar. It was safe to say he felt a bit overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of information he had taken in over the past few weeks, and the restlessness this onslaught engendered was always worse at night. He was already showing a high propensity for internalizing his thoughts and feelings until he’d wrestled them into something he could work with or express comfortably, but tonight he limp-shuffled over to his father’s sleeping form and gently nosed at the Frostfur patriarch’s heavily-muscled shoulder. He half-hoped @Scimitar would not wake up — he couldn’t have put into words what he was saying or how he was feeling — but at the end of the day, Cypress Benvolio Frostfur, for all his posturing and pretending, was a very small boy who depended heavily on his parents for love and comfort.

Eshe had been under the weather for days now, and so the Frostfur had spent little time away from her side. It had been noted that some of their more loyal members had disappeared now -- Mazi and Astra both, but he found little surprise in this. It remained a shame, but pending their excuses for leaving, it was not necessarily the last chance the Forest King would give them if they tried to return.
 
Sleep had settled upon him, and while his rest was more fitful these days, he rarely fell in to the deep sleeps he had prior to having children. When he felt the gentlest of nudges upon his shoulder, the dark agouti man roused himself from sleep, his eyes blinking tiredly in to the dark before his gaze fell upon an inquisitive Cypress. "Son," he murmured, a yawn emitting from his widening jaws, gauging the situation to see if anything was amiss. "What's wrong?"

Cypress is feeling the feels. ♥

If Cypress had been given to theatrics, he might have thrown himself at his father’s paws with a sharply uttered, “LIFE, PAW. LIFE.” Much of his flair for the dramatic and macabre was reserved for his recollections and observations, however, and so he merely stated with the honesty of the very young: “I don’t know. Nothing, maybe.” He drew up alongside his father with a weariness that surpassed his age, leaning his small body against the Frostfur patriarch’s shoulder and taking great comfort in the fact that Eshe and Rannoch slept on. Casting a furtive glance toward the turquoise-eyed boy in particular, “Paw, I’m never gonna be big like you and Noch, am I?” he asked in a low, gritty undertone that was laced with begrudging acceptance. It was perhaps too early to tell, but at this point in the boys’ lives it was evident that Cypress was leaner, his muscles settling more lightly upon his frame. Though the boys might one day be matched in height, Cypress would never quite match Rannoch in sheer muscle mass.

The lump in his throat was big enough to choke on, but Cypress swallowed past it with clenched jaws and eyes squeezed shut. “Can I still protect the forest if I — if I don’t grow?” he asked, babyish tears stinging his muddy eyes and spilling down his cheeks. He hated to cry — he hadn’t done so since he was too young to control it — but the fear that drove his follow-up question caused a fresh set of rivulets to dig damp furrows through the velveteen of his cheeks. “Can you still be p-proud of me?” he hiccuped. Love was one thing; he knew his parents loved him unconditionally, for he had been surrounded by their warmth and protection and had no reason to doubt it. Pride, though, was another thing entirely — the idea that Rannoch would succeed where Cypress would fail was terrifying to the older boy.

The state of dreams that had previously befallen him clung to him like a thin cloud, though his burning eyes blinked as they focused more closely upon the youthful Cypress. The boy hedged an answer – admitting nothing, but hinting toward something that unsettled him, and sweeping his muzzle forward, as the boy angled in toward his side.
 
The question was one that surprised him given the time of day – though he was also keenly aware from his litter prior the certain competitiveness that could stem from young cubs as they grew and began to understand hierarchy and the ways of the wolf more – more than enough times had his previous brood tested themselves against one another, and more than enough times had they sought the comfort of their parents as they found their place. Cypress and Rannoch were closer to one another than his previous litter though – both held the same interest, and both shadowed each other.
 
“You’re not done growing yet, son,” he murmured, his nose inching down to nudge at the top of the boy’s head. “And even if you are smaller – you can still be the mightiest protector this forest has ever seen. There have been wolves half my size who have defeated me in spars,” he noted quietly, recalling how many times Bazi had tactically outplayed him.
 
But it was the final question – followed with a stream if uncertainty in the form of tears and a hiccup for added effect that stirred the agouti wolf to close his form more closely around the boy, protecting him from all else he could in that moment. “Your mother and I have never been prouder of you both already,” he assured, his heart aching as he could hear Eshe’s quiet breath as she slept. She would have been far better at this kind of talk – but surely he could ensure his love for his son would never sway?

Cypress’ hundredth post is for you! ♥

The scruffy fledgling huddled close to his father, burying his face weakly against the reassuring strength of the patriarch’s sepia-furred shoulder; in time, the tremulous stutter of his breath could be coaxed into a controlled rhythm and he grew quiet and still. “You were defeated in a spar?” he asked incredulously, his voice husky and thick in the aftermath of his tears. With the inside of his foreleg, Cypress dashed the tears from his face. He was loathe to leave the safety of his father’s embrace and rearranged his lanky limbs to tangle more comfortably with Scimitar’s, unable to stop himself from comparing himself to his brother and father even now. Rannoch looked like a grayscale version of the Neverwinter alpha — shrunken down, perhaps, but with an analogous height x breadth ratio. Cypress was skeptical that he would ever fill out quite that much, no matter how much he trained, and the doubtful glint in his lantern-light eyes betrayed his fear. Still, he trusted implicitly in Scimitar’s closing statement, underscored with a grave sort of fervency: “your mother and I have never been prouder of you both already.”

“I’m always gonna try to make you and Mama proud, Paw,” the raven prince rejoined staunchly, his youthful voice just beginning to dip into that deeper register that foretold his burgeoning adolescence. “Noch’n me are gonna be mighty protectors together and help you take care of Mama and Lucy and the forest.” Despite the envy he felt, Cypress bore no resentment toward his heavily-muscled littermate. He had inherited all of his father’s solemnity and only half of his stoicism, all of his mother’s loyalty and possibly only a quarter of her unfettered generosity. What he got from them both was a wealth of love and affection for family, and a great deal of that was lavished upon Rannoch — and now, on Lucy. Cypress found himself less inclined to wander than Rannoch and had not spent extensive time interacting with his cousins; he recalled that Rian was a ridiculously proficient hunter for his age and incredibly generous to boot, but he had only briefly met Dublin, Eimear, or Szabala.

Why is my baby so cute?! -snuggles Cypress-

Cypress seemed soothed more by his words -- though disbelieving. Scimitar's heart ached the moment the boy wiped away his tears of uncertainty away, and re-arranged himself closer to the pack's patriarch -- his own muzzle sweeping down to graze the boy's head with his nose. "Yes," he noted with the hint of a smile, recalling how fierce both Fox and Bazi could be. "By wolves smaller than you, son," It was these words he hoped the boy would take him him moving forward -- Scimitar was not a man of wisdom, but he could only hope to impart the knowledge he did know with some grace. "To be a guardian and to fight is not a matter of sheer size, but  of everything you are made of. I am not as fast as many -- agility helps. Your wit and cleverness also will aide you." He held no doubt either of his boys would be fine warriors, and unable to withhold the pride in his voice, he canted his muzzle toward Cypress. "We can begin training, if you'd like."
 
The Frostfur was quick to acknowledge he and Rannoch would be mighty warriors of the forest, and a smile graced itself upon Scimitar's cream-tipped muzzle. "I've never doubted either of you. You already make us proud."

Easy! He has great genes!

The gangly raven listened quietly, digesting his father’s words with fervent concentration writ in the furrow of his brow and the frown upon his face. “To be a guardian and to fight is not a matter of sheer size, but of everything you are made of,” the Frostfur patriarch said, and the boy’s lantern yellow eyes brightened with new hope. “There’s no way I could fail, then,” he realized with unshakable conviction, adding by way of explanation, “since I’m made of you and Mama.” Eshe was the most beautiful wolf in the world — of this, her sons were absolutely sure — and Scimitar was the world’s greatest hero and Eshe’s most stalwart champion. “Training?” Cypress asked with hushed excitement, burrowing more tightly against his father, relishing the moments he had the forest king completely to himself. “Even though we’re s’posed to be sleeping, can you show me just one thing now, Paw?” wheedled the wild-furred prince, his eyes round and beseeching. “Please? I promise I’ll go to sleep after. I just wanna have something to practice.” Though his paws still ached, he bounded to them eagerly, turning a quick circle of excitement.

Cypress’ eagerness shone through just as the agouti wolf had hoped. The boy lit up with the enthusiasm that he and Eshe had always hoped to elicit from their children, and so when he begged to be shown at least one battle tactic, Scimitar cast a glance to his sleeping wife and other son – both unmoving thus far despite the hushed whispers and conversations that occurred beside them.
 
Eshe might have insisted Cypress wait until the break of day – that for now, he settle in to their usual schedule and attempt sleep. But Scimitar relished these stolen moments with his family, and with wink and nod, the large wolf pushed himself partly upward, slinking toward the den entrance – for surely they could only practice properly in the night air, and without waking their slumbering companions.

An impish glance was cast toward Rannoch’s sleeping form as Cypress followed their father outside the den, and some of the boy’s usual joie de vivre showed itself in the renewed sparkle of his lantern yellow eyes and the buoyant bounce in his step. He crowded his father lovingly, tipping back his head to butt his cheek against the Frostfur patriarch’s hip, and eventually dipped under Scimitar’s immense form to wind carefully around the strong, pillar-like legs and come out on the other side. Energized and bolstered by his father’s encouragement, Cypress spun a few quick circles; his paws were still aching and weary, and his movements were sloppier than they’d have been if he’d been fresher, but he yapped playfully nonetheless. An attentive, waiting stillness settled on his youthful features as he sat like a little soldier in front of the turquoise-eyed forest king. “I beat Rannoch when we race,” he said, his white-daubed chest puffing up with pride, “but when we’re practicing fighting, even if I run at him as fast as I can, he just sorta — bounces me.” The fledgling’s brow furrowed as he tried to explain himself, but it was likely clear to the mercenary what was going on: Cypress favored the head-on attack, but no matter how quick he was, Rannoch could easily counter.

Under Scimitar’s impromptu tutelage, Cypress began his first sparring lesson, learning the details of using speed, finesse, and cunning to best opponents who dwarfed him in heft.