Sawtooth Spire i do not love the bright sword for its sharpness

he sounds out his name for her: astraeus and declares in the few moments that follow that he's in charge. mmm, praimfaya rumbles. i see. with a grim nod, playing along with what she assumes is the child's imagination. praimfaya. my name is praimfaya, she introduces herself to him, tail wagging invitingly against the rock she rests upon. goufa, she repeats, means 'child', in my people's language. at least, it was one of the few ways to say it.

praimfaya is startled when she feels him begin to knead at her side. for the barest of moments, her muscles tense at the unfamiliar sensation only to relax in the following heartbeats. frostbound gaze locks upon him, watching the strange action the goufa makes and wonders if it is something he would've done to his mother. the thought comes to her from some deeply ingrained, severely dormant maternal instinct that sparks to life like a tiny lightbulb on a strand of thousands. not quite lone but far from casting a cozy atmosphere.

i like to think so, praimfaya murmurs in answer to his first question. being strong isn't always about being big, praimfaya tells him matter-of-factly; for she wasn't the biggest nor the baddest ( probably to her dismay ). are you going to be a warrior when you grow up astraeus? she asks him, taking advantage of the perhaps brief lapse in questions.