Moonspear love the child

It was potentially of interest to note that he felt something unsettling in the way that she referenced the children. They were in essence of them both, but he wavered back and forth in how he thought of them, often considering them more hers than his in any regard. To father was one thing, but to be a father was another thing entirely, and how he would rise to the occasion was a matter yet to unfold. It had been in part why he had left their names up to her—she had wanted tradition, had tradition to build from, and he had none. The threat of inadequacy from then passed over him now, masked behind an appraising note in his throat.

"Vega... I believe your brother suggested that to me at one point," he noted, gently touching her with his nose. "But they do seem a suitable set of names for certain. Proud, and strong. You chose well." It was easy to pull that thin smile across his face, to seem appeased when the truth of it was that he didn't know how to feel. The neutrally, the apathy of it, that was unsettling; he chalked it up to simply being able to see them. And it may have been a large part of it indeed, but he was far from begrudging her of how she wanted to progress things. They were both a guarded set if nothing else.