The Sentinels we travelled the wide oceans, heard many call your name

*cough*

athair.

it was never a title that lasher had ever thought would be given him, not at the height of his tearful wandering. having left julien and cruel love behind, the then-young druid had ranged far -- only by the breath of a blessing had he wandered into siku's encampment and tied himself immediately to the witch. he thought of her far less often, but she still traversed the hall of his memories.

it was a small word, but held within itself all the promise of the horizons just beyond the summerset limit of his visions. and though the drifts still lifted themselves up at his very threshhold; though the soft flakes of white floated down to obscure his vision; though the win'try wind still combed iced fingers across his nape and flanks, he was warmed by her, warmed by the piping little voice and confident stance of his growing daughter.

and he was also reminded anew of his mortality, and the very possible idea that his little witches would be the last children born unto him and the willow. this was not necessarily a grievous thing, but it forced the druid to ponder what years were left to him. 

his eyes were alight with a fond fire as he gazed down at the babe; deirdre; witchling. 

"iníon."