Moonspear a place to anchor

They were certainly all of different personalities, that much could be said. A constant whirlwind of motion that often dissipated as quickly as it came on, they all seemed to be at the height of action beneath his watchful gaze. For the most part, he hadn't had to play wrangler; the cubs seemed not eager to wander too far, not even when Hydra had left them in his company. This was hardly the first episode he had been alone with them, but it was comforting to know that they would not squall at her absence.

Of course, he knew that her sisters more than likely did not wander far away either, ever keen to watch and play sentinel to any sort of unsavory event that could have unfolded. He did not think much on these either, instead focused on the rousing squabble between son and daughter over a stick and how the other two took note of this, or perhaps how they wished to partake when the opportunity seemed high.

It was Atlas who seemed to tire of such fanfare first—Dirge felt his gaze meet his through the play, only to watch it tear away from him when he met that gaze curiously. It seemed to upset him, to have met his father's gaze, though it was hardly a threatening glare. Humoring, if nothing else—Hydra had described him as Atlas the Bold, after all. Gently, he let his tail sweep the dusty den entrance behind him, as though it would entice the boy to draw nearer. All was forgiven, nevertheless. Unlike his own upbringing, he wouldn't spurn the boy for his attempt. He was simply young, meant to enjoy it while it lasted.