Hideaway Strath the teeth of the eye of a storm

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The torture of bath does not last forever and once it has ceased the thespian to be forgets about it. A gift of extreme youth: his discomfort ends and the screeching wail that had been building like a bubbling volcano in the boy’s chest dissipates and leaves with a soft gurgle noise, not nearly as fierce as the banshee scream his lungs was building the anticipation up for. He is not a bathe enthusiast — if his pelage is ruffled and wind-swept, wild and untamed then that will only serve to be all the better. He can’t be James Dean cool without some rad windswept fur, after all. He shifts closer to the warmth of his uncle Dagfinn, seeking to coo into the plush fur of where ever Roarke can jab his nose. He wiggles an inch or two — but it feels like the biggest accomplishment ever because he has no concepts of time or space — lets out a splitting yawn with a cute little baby noise, stretches his pudgy potato self and with the grace of youth falls into a light sleep that is not destined to last.

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