Bearclaw Valley They grow into adults, and become dangerous things

aventus drank. for a split second of time astara's reality was sheathed by the wonder of the world -- the way sunlight glittered off his deep obsidian pelt -- the way the stream's dull waters rippled from his pale pink tongue -- the rivulets of moving sunglitter as they bounced in silent bluewhite waves from his dripping muzzle and dark neck -

and she had created that --

that perfect, beautiful, powerful specimen that one day would rule the world alongside his sister.

she need not bend to the reflective light of a crystal ball to understand the lift of his gums and show of teeth. astara worried for the durability of his freshly healed wounds, but would not say no.

how then, to proceed? what way to teach or tell him the order of their kind, if not by brute force?

they could swim, or walk uphill. both would benefit aventus' fitness, and both had their own purposes when it came to training. she glanced to the stream pointedly for a moment, and then drew her long muzzle south where the path wound around a gentle hill. which would he prefer?