On a bed of moss just outside the den, Baldr lay and chewed on a stick, a remedy for sore gums split by growing teeth. Not only that, but he was quite satisfied seeing the little holes and lines his teeth made in the wood's grains, and he tried more and more with each bite to sink his teeth in deeper, and create an even larger bite impression on the wood.
He imagined someday, he might be a guardian- and if he was, he'd want to grow to be strong, like both of his parents- and if he was ever going to have any hope of catching up to them, he had to start training young!
from close by, though choosing to shroud himself as much as possible in the foliage, rusalka watches baldr. his looming presence nearby is the protective patriarch, despite that there are not many wolves left in hljóðrfell and thus not many to distrust.
but those instincts, rusalka was finding, are impossible to turn off.
he watches for a stretch of minutes as his son worries a stick before he inches forward, an idea taking form in his mind. only in in the interest of not startling the daylights out of his son did rusalka let out a rumbling chuff.
a playful warning before he emerges from the shadows. baldr!
crows rusalka. show me your best wrestling moves!
as he slips into a play bow before his son; encouraging. a lesson masquerading as play.
Lost in his thoughts, and satisfied with mindlessly chewing on the stick, Baldr yipped and jumped when a chuff disconnected him from his thoughts, only to land with his paws squared, hackles bristling and his short, tapered tail sticking straight up. The moment he spotted his father, though, it began to wave albeit a bit sheepishly. He tilted his chin away and huffed; a quiet dismissal of any notion he'd been frightened. He'd just been startled- and he didn't want to be taken for a scaredy cat.
His grin turned into a playful grimace, and the boy dipped down into a playbow before he began to bounce, bunny-hopping over to his father with his needle-fangs bared and little, gurgling growls spilling from his chest.
rusalka watches his son, notes what he reads as an eagerness to play wrestle, bunny hop nearer, his sharp teeth bared and little growls slipping betwixt his teeth.
it was an amusing sight, but rusalka hides the amusement that he wants to let loose.
that's a good boy,
he praises instead; smoky voice rich and warm like honeyed whiskey. nice show of teeth, good growls.
he would not be carved of the same cold, saltstone of his father, whose approval was an impossible thing to earn. in fact, rusalka was sure it didn't even exist.
now attack me!
rusalka encourages, keeping his posture low; playful.
He paused, dipping into another playbow and allowing his small, thin tail to wave back and forth over his haunches, grinning gratefully for the praise. Hungry for more, he hopped on the spot in excitement, before he gamboled forward, and rather than pouncing one of his father's massive feet and using his teeth as a canine ought to do, he tucked his chin against his chest and made to headbutt him square in the chest.
what rusalka did not expect, was his son to use his head as a battering ram and headbutt him square in the chest. having not been expecting it, rusalka lets out a wheeze and stumbles back a few steps.
saltcoated curses dance upon his tongue but a quick bite stifles them back.
phew,
rusalka lets out a deep breath.
that was a good headbutt, bruiser.
rusalka tests out his new, on the spot nickname for his son. is that how you wrestle your siblings?
Baldr staggered momentarily, lightly dazed from the impact- but simultaneously he grinned, a great broad smile, and his tongue lolled out the side of his mouth. He'd seen his father step back, and felt quite pleased with himself for having caught his father by surprise.
Once the dizziness wore off, he shook his head and perked his ears. With a light chuckle, he nodded, and dipped down into another playbow before he pounced again- this time hoping to make a grab for his father's front foot.
rusalka gets no verbal answer from baldr; only a chuckle and a nod. oof,
drawls rusalka with a shake of his head in an effort to shake it off; perhaps playing into it. almost dramatic, like. how a parent might when they wished to encourage and build up their children's self esteem. poor kids are gettin' bulldozed by a tank.
rusalka says in his chuckle; his pride undisputed.
this time, when baldr lowers into a playbow, rusalka mimics; golden gaze sharp on his son, unable to help but hope that he doesn't get headbutted again.
to rusalka's relief, bruiser doesn't go for another headbutt, but this time, makes to pounce on his front foot. rusalka resists the urge to pull it back, to follow through with what instincts and muscles scream at him: to pull his footback and grasp the boy by the scruff.
this was play. this was training.
baldr's pounce makes contact. good!
booms the patriarch.
He landed squarely with one forepaw on either side of Rusalka's massive mitt, and with a chorus of puppy-voice growls he mouthed at his father's foot, though he found it hard to find a good place to chomp down. It wasn't like there was a tonne of loose fur or skin hanging about on his feet, so he changed up his technique.
Flopping to his side, he grabbed at his father's foot with his front feet, aiming to nab some of the feathering at his heel with his mouth, and land a couple of rabbit-kicks to his dad's toes with his hind feet.
the boy attempts to grab his paw; but it is bony by nature.
still, bruiser's teeth are sharp! and rusalka finds himself letting out a small hiss of pain as the boy's teeth finds purchase. the bunny kicks are not felt as keenly as the sharp prick of teeth but it is enough.
that's good, bruiser,
rumbles rusalka affectionately, before he playfully snaps his teeth at the ear near the boy's belly.
but your belly's exposed.
he attempts to divert play into a lesson once more.
He squealed with joy when his father clicked his teeth together near his belly, and made to swipe at his father's muzzle with one of his round little paws. It took a couple of tries for him to roll over; being rather round made it a bit more difficult for him to protect his belly, of course. He was, in fact, mostly belly still, with short, thick legs and a little, round head.
if his belly wasn't supposed to be exposed, then he'd have to stay right-side-up! He clamboured to his feet, and reared back, so that he could put his forepaws against his father's chest and try to nip at his jawline.
good! good!
rusalka booms between chuckles as his son nips at his jawline. like a true saltson.
the praise leaves his lips, though brings with it a small twist in his gut; remembering what he had to go through to be a true cairn in his father's eyes.
a small shudder slithers down his spine but he closes those memories off swiftly; slamming the door in their face and hoping he captured fingers in the seam of the door to keep them from returning.
his sons and daughters would never have to endure the drop.
what'dya say we take a break and get a little snack?
offers rusalka after a while longer. i don't know about you, bruiser, but i'm a little hungry.