Neverwinter Forest blowin’ off my mom, i don’t wanna go home

Young bones creak like old ones.
Stationed at Zephyr’s side and healing together, Kratos feels like he’s gained five years during the recovery. The wounds having been scratched and shifted and pulled open countless times, unable to sit still when he ought to. But Zephyr has been good enough to patrol, and he, too, strong enough to get to his feet.
Kratos has the tendency to keep close, akin to a personal bodyguard. Yet there are moments during the day when both need their time away. It is thus that he keeps his mind busy, working muscles and adrenaline and wanting nothing more than to sink teeth into flesh.
Kratos happens upon the gathering at the borders—his patrol leading here just as Mal’s had. The air is thick, suffocating. It weighs upon shoulders. One polite would turn around, assuming the situation with a glance of mother, pup and Mal’s playboy antics.
Kratos isn’t polite. Never has been.
He approaches, striding towards the merle Boss; Never seen you so quiet. Pale gold eyes shift from him to the duo. The fuck you do to him to shut him up? It’s worthy of a trophy.
Muzzle twists in what ought to be a smirk of sorts, but looks more akin to a nightmare; ugly and distorted on his face. Look, he can smile, Mal. A snort follows after, and since the Boss seems tongue tied he does the talking for him; What do you want.