Verdant Basin You're The Angel From My Nightmare

Set to late morning - early afternoon of December 12th :3

With but one backwards look to Arthendal in promises to return at sundown, Vassago set off into the world with a bounce in his step one not from the slight shivering and a grin on his face; even his little half-tail wiggled with joy as the Rochester boy explored on his own outside of home for the first time. Every couple of paces, he stopped to shake out his pelt and give it a few fluffing licks to both dry and warm himself, but when he'd got to another body of water -- this one stiller than his own -- he stopped to lay down and get a drink. 

Flopping to the earth on the shore, Vassago dipped his head to drink, but his marigold eyes scanned the area around him. There was a slight fear, deep down, of getting hurt -- he'd always imagined his first time out of Arthendal, at this point, he'd be with somebody. 
Pyro had -- this Vassago remembered with a wave of sadness as he settled on his elbow; he hadn't got to be there when his brother took his first steps across the river, and now Pyro wasn't here to be with him. He'd been warned back with Malice's fangs from an adventure, and that had hurt him more deeply than any time she'd lashed out at him for asking about The Brotherhood -- why hadn't be been allowed to go? Was curiosity about people trying to hurt his family such a bad thing he was shunned for it? Lately, it sure felt like it. 
Why wasn't he as good as Pyro? Why didn't his parents love him like Pyro? Vassago was the biggest, the strongest, the dominant -- he guarded the borders and he looked out for their safety more than it felt they did.... So why couldn't he be the favorite?

[table width=60%][tr][td]

Ah, but he is so, so bored! So very lacking in things to do and happenings to excite the imagination. The boy pouts to nobody in particular but he does so all the same, and then he sighs, and all too dramatically flops onto the ground. woe is he! he is lost, lost without interest to sustain his will to live - and then he thinks back to the humming of his lord, and of the tale-weaving that there is to be done in his duty, and the lands that are yet to be explored! wonder! ysen grins, smile a-stretching his childish maw, elated and joyous all of a sudden. he is indulged!
he picks up scent after scent and encounters no wolf and he thinks, thinks of a character that he spins into existence. and he carries on his odd jaunty gait, so flippantly casual to the uninitiated, ordinary to those who know him - that is, none except his Madir dearest. "once there was a boy," says he, to the wind and the skies and those that will hear him. "and the boy was funny. a curious youth was he!"
the Dreamweaver pauses, then tilts his head up, eyes atwinkling.
his boy has a face!
he bends, meets the other child with his even, silver stare, croons slowly, deeply as befits a tale-teller of his station. "the boy wanted one thing more than ever. he wanted to be appreciated."
ysen only smiles sweetly, softly, the likeliness of a morning-dew flower, perfect in its fragility, beautiful in its dawnsong colours. "hello there."

[/td][/tr][/table]

The young boy's attention was stolen by the scent of Arthendal, but he knew it wasn't his parents for the specific scent wasn't what he feared. In fact, when the red and grey male lopes into view, Vassago fixes him with a calm, nonchalant gaze and keeps silent. 
When a voice lifts into the sky in a story, Vass' head tips and his ears fan forward to catch them in interest. Some part of him wonders if Ysengrin knows who he is, knows he isn't allowed to be on this side of the river, but each word brought him closer to assuming the story was about him. The chestnut Lordling played along and dips his head in greeting.

                                     "How do you know the boy didn't simply want to wander?"

[table width=60%][tr][td]

how do you know the boy didn't simply want to wander?
at this, the boy turns with a knowing smile and a wink ready to appear upon his youthful face that he holds back. the voice is young, slightly younger than his own and interestingly masculine - in his little lifetime ysen has not met many who possess such a voice. even his is high and lilting and melodic; neither female nor male it is. he cocks his head at the statement, releases himself from his crouch to posture himself on the ground, sitting. he does not bow, but he smiles, a twinkle in his eyes and a something in his smile not yet discernible.
"a purposeless wanderer loses himself in the desert."
a few weeks in this land has matured him; although he is still the jolly, singing wanderer, he is also the boy who has seen beyond his years and lived eons before his time. he feels as if he is a multitude of many lives, and these lives are what lead to the stories he spouts. there is a spring in his step, but his gaze is that of an old, old man.
so ysengrin faces the child with a certain heaviness of stare. "never be a purposeless wander, lad. the lord would have the hide of this child."
he smiles again, continues with the tale as if he had never stopped to weave the threat of needless wandering.
"he walked, this boy, looking for men and women who would see him for what he was. a perceptive, intelligent boy with a heart of gold and edged with iron. he had eyes the deepest blue, and he walked with age to his gait.
"then one day he found a witch-crone who promised everything to him."

[/td][/tr][/table]