Hideaway Strath that is the thing that calls to all of my kind

Roarke lets out a low, throaty chuckle when Molly announces that she is, indeed, “Mol” and lounges against him as if he is a luxurious chaise lounge but the winter’s bane hardly minds. “Could be an imposer.” He teases her with a smirk, using the wrong word when he means “imposter” but this slips out of his notice because he knows what he means and there are no adults present to correct him on which word he means. He assumes that Molly will be able to understand what he means. A yawn escapes him, splitting his jaws wide so that when he he lets out the final breath of his yawn his teeth snap together. “I don’t wanna patrol. I wanna fight.” There is too much safety in border patrolling, he believes. Thus far, every time he has joined Arturo on patrols the only action he sees is when Molly tags along and entices him to spar as to which he happily consents to. He is a beast built for war not sentry duty. Roarke understands it is a necessary evil but that doesn’t mean he has to like it (he doesn’t).

The promise of adventure glints in the depths of his sister’s gaze but he makes her work for it; and she does not disappoint as she scrambles off of him and tries to pull him up. A snort and eruption of laughter leaves his lips, irrationally, because there is something humorous to him about her trying to tug him to his paws. “Ok, ok.” He concedes between giggles and pushes himself to his paws with a stretch, freeing and stiffness that might have resulted from his little nap.