Hideaway Strath to gaze upon you everyday but be denied your touch

Ceallach’s teeth tease against Roarke’s flesh — yet plush and corpulent as Roarke is. There is promise that one day, as he trains and hones his body to be a weapon coupled with puberty that his baby pudge will melt and give way to impressive and hardened musculature of a true born tundrian but Roarke is still yet a soft thing, pliable and (to his dismay) breakable. His plight to use his weight to his advantage sees his youngest littermate — his only brother to his immediate knowledge — to his side. A breathless, excited laugh erupts from the winter’s bane muzzle at this change of power in their play even as the sounds they make at one another give a different impression. They play but the vicious sounds that tear from their yet small bodies could give concern to any third party observer — though they seem to be alone (or as alone as any adult is willing to let them be). Ceallach finds the aspiring warrior’s ear and the tug his brother gives to it causes a low, throaty half growl to spill from betwixt his lips as Roarke’s jaws part wide, aiming to dislodge his brother’s mouth from his ear and try to clamp down on the other boy’s muzzle unaware that he lets himself open for attack of Ceallach’s own while Roarke things with a singular purpose avoiding all the other advantages and his own defense in the process.