Mount Apikuni cat and mouse in partnership

age isn’t an easy thing for wintersbane to guess; at least, not accurately. but he knows when a wolf has reached maturity and when it shows signs of still being a yearling, still a bit coltish. the shadows that swath the stranger that rouses at his chuff, shifting in the enveloping darkness of ledgecover and mistfall, conceal many of the other’s features, but he appears young from silhouette alone. younger than quellcrist, who was, by now, probably almost a woman grown. a child born of this season, perhaps.

wintersbane watches as the boy peers out into the rain, hesitating from his place of safety …from his place of damnation; unwittingly backed into a corner. wintersbane got the distinct feeling that if he did not minimize his appearance, if he did not speak softly and lowly to the boy that he might bolt like a doe caught in headlights; spooked. he did not harbor the fearlessness of most children wintersbane had met in his life.

a tragedy wrapped in flesh and bones.

it’s alright lad, wintersbane calls out to him, lowering himself upon his haunches slowly; making a deliberate show as if to assure that he meant no harm. i’m not going to hurt you. though he’s sired numerous children — some he knew of and most of them he did not — he wasn’t sure he was much of a father. still, paternal instinct unearthed when quellcrist travelled with him was a flame hard to stamp out. it resisted and persisted.

i’m wintersbane, he offers his name, hoping to coax at least some sort of verbal response from the boy, if nothing else. what’s yours?