Moonspear love the child

And she had been right to think of him.

From the timberline he emerged only to dip into it again along the juts of stone, a sort of weaving and meandering spell that carried him. He hadn't quite intended to go by Hydra's whelping den again so soon, but it was where the path took him, and the muscle memory carried him further. It was only when he spotted her resting in the den mouth that his steps turned towards her with mute interest; he wondered what crossed her mind then to idle so, or whether or not the pups she protected so swiftly had finally worn her down.

The confidence in his stride faltered as he closed in—he knew to be wary and knew his dance well. It was just as probable that she didn't want company as much as she did, and a once over of his surroundings told him that she seemed to be alone for the time being. Yet there was something there that always tested the boundaries of their unspoken arrangement, a certain surly antagonism in his step beneath the absent confidence. He didn't want to aggravate her or stoke that ire, no, but he did not shy away from the opportunity to reach out and touch, to steal a tender moment by his hand in whatever solitude they had between them.

And today, he was feeling particularly enticed. Perhaps he could steal her away.

His muzzle reached for her, a lascivious smile gracing his countenance.