Kintla Flatlands blood and honey

It was to yet another land that they had come, and the Shah welcomed the possibility of yet more stretches to conquer. He stood at the apex of the long flats, a gentle breeze ruffling through his ruddy fur. Young no longer, Xerxes of Susa had been gifted the full weight and breadth of his masculine body. He had not gained height, but what he lacked in that respect was balanced by the broadening of his chest, the subtle hints of muscle that had climbed with prowess into visibility, the plush depths of his desert-kissed coat. Perhaps they had come on a whim, the two of them; in Susa, they had left behind a towering legacy of beauty and strength, a tribute to the late Dariush and the illustrious Frostfurs. Eight children, nine if the first was counted, the small boy who had never left the minds of Xerxes and Nita, even now, the Persian breathed the name into the warm air of the flatlands. "My love, what do you make of it?" Xerxes inquired at length, emerald gaze dancing sideways to gauge the reaction of his porcelain Shabanu, still beautiful, lush with curves and filled with the fire of her bloodline. Nita.