Golden Glade One minute I'm in Central Park, Then I'm down on Delancey Street

Rowan's scarlet eyes fell on the brindle form of his youngest brother, unsure of what to do with something even smaller than him -- even if only just -- that was pouncing about after absolutely nothing. It was an odd thing, but before the heir could even so much as react another pale form rose int he corner. He could not recognize the woman who had aided in his birth, and though his tail curled over his back at the gazes of both mother and son on him, the Pryor boy didn't flinch away. He hadn't yet learned words -- or maybe he just didn't think to use them -- and gave her only a shrug. It was something he saw his father do a lot, shrug -- as much as he didn't like the towering figure, he sure did pick up habits from the King. Again, his bloody eyes turned to Bramble in curiosity, and Rowan even took a step towards him.