Lion Head Mesa i found a catalyst for disaster in you

The soturi’s hackles bristled at his soot dusted cape as the lone stranger approaches but does not pull back from his drink until is thirst is sated because he was here first. When he does lift his muzzle and swipes his salmon pink tongue across his jowls to collected the stray droplets of water the young satopäällikkö regards the male — dappled in a pelage a collection of dull browns and blondes — with apathetic glacial gaze when the man calls him kid. Kid. Though it is effectively what Kahlil is the tundrian hates the word. “That’s none of your business,” Kahl points out. Dangerous. Now that was funny. The word no longer holds the same kind of power it once had over Kahl. He grows by the day, the pudge of puphood melting and hardened into hardened muscle whether this is the beginnings of puberty or his own make as he trains to earn the warrior specialty. He’s already earned the mercenary trade at almost four months of age — could any of the other children claim such a feat? “Danger and I are old friends.” The tundrian speaks in a low rumble, drawing his salmon pink tongue across his jowls once more. Kahlil is not as helpless as his age would have others believe: and this makes him the perfect thespian; but today he has no interest in playing roles. He is still festering with restlessness and he is at a loss at how to rid himself of it.