Sawtooth Spire a river turned to blood

a figure approaches — a woman; draped in stunning golds and creams. a heavily pregnant woman. he knows her as nyx, as one that arrived with diaspora but has never had the chance or found the opportunity to properly introduce himself to her. he doesn't mean to avoid the members beneath him; has no excuse to for he has not ( to his knowledge anyway ) fathered any cubs and was not preoccupied. not as much as he'd like to be, anyway. the jealousy is still there, still seething beneath the surface of his carefully composed facade made easier to pull off each time by the scars that mar and paralyze those particular muscles of his face.

glacial gaze casts over the wilds that yawn beneath the tower of their spire; admiring like an olympian ( hades, if he was to be associated with any sort of god ) peering over his domain. it is not long before his gaze finds its way back to nyx and he greets her with a low, rumbling chuff; unable to help but wonder what brings her out to the borders in her condition. not that, presently, it appeared like they were in any sort of danger of having unwelcome guests.