Hideaway Strath your kiss is the jackal among the tombs

maybe wrap this up in the next post or two? :-)

These instincts: the unbidden rise of possessiveness over his food and the utter willingness to fight for it will affirm his survival in the future despite that now it takes hold in the presence of his own siblings (and even his own parents!). Chusi would not starve him, would not steal the nourishment he needs for his growing body and he knows this but the low growl that erupts from his throat — despite that she has made no movements — cannot be helped. It comes from the part of Roarke that is primal, that is feral and he cannot hope to tame it. He lends his elder sister an ear as he continues to gnaw at his prize, tearing smaller chunks, chewing and then swallowing them contentedly as she she explains to him what a butterfly is. His chewing slows, rather comically, for a moment as he processes what Chusi has explained to him and try to figure out if he has seen any insect like that …all the while trying to understand why their mother would call her such a thing. Especially as the tundrian’s view of insects is not nearly so kind. To Roarke they are fragile things, too easily crushed under paw, from which this stems general disregard for them. “Oh.” Is all Roarke dares to offer lest he (accidentally) insult his elder sister.

Where Chusi and Lotte see a beauty Roarke only sees a little thing that comes to ruin too easy; but he is still young and thinks that strength is a physical attribute only. He does not yet understand that the strength of will and fire of spirit are equal if not more prominent than brute strength. Even though his own twin, Eirlys, is a direct example of it born the weaker of the two and yet surviving despite the numerous odds stacked against her. A flesh example of skin that yet turns from porcelain, to ivory, to steel. Chusi’s giggle caused his ear, swiveled towards her, to flutter for a second before the pair smoothed against the curve of his skull. The winter’s bane does not answer her question instead lets out a small grunt as he finishes off his prize before he turns back to his dark coated sister, blood staining the pale of his muzzle and a few dribbles that splashed upon the crest of his chest. “Bone?” He asks gesturing towards the rabbit with his muzzle. He has a small collection of them already tucked away in an haphazardly dug corner of the lotturo den but fresh bones are undeniably the best as he favors the sweet marrow he can suckle as he worries them.