Stavanger Bay pain is a ritual we are required to conduct in

Kerberos watches as she approaches, drawing closer — not enough to invade either of their spaces but it is not an action that goes unnoticed. Kerberos is politely and instinctually weary but not in any manner that he would put off as rude. Sand colored ears twitch atop his skull as she mentions that she’s sorry to hear about his sleep. His tail twitches behind him, in contemplation. He hadn’t spoken it for her pity: he’s created his own demon and now he has no choice but to live with it. Or …not. He’s got the capabilities of ending it, of starving the demon for the rest of eternity, for inviting Sos to take his soul. Yet, he hasn’t. Perhaps fear keeps him from summoning the strength of taking it that far, or perhaps Kerberos feels directly responsible for the monsters he’s made of his three children who willingly and without much hesitation joined him in that darkness. Not that he’s doing much good of keeping an eye upon them by being away from them. They’d been pups — no older than six months old and he’d singlehandedly taught them how to be horrors. Some father he turned out to be.

Kerberos’ attention is drawn back to her once more as she places a simple inquiry between them. Is there anything I can do? A dangerous question in and of itself, the Aok thinks bitterly. He doubts she would be so willing to help him in any way if she knew; but of course she didn’t know. It’s not something that Kerberos is naturally or overly inclined to share about himself. Kerberos draws in a breath and lets it out with a soft smile. “My name is Kerberos,” He offers instead of answering her question, figuring it’s better to leave her question unanswered for now.