Deepwood Weald [m] lxix. love, hunt me down

the northman is quiet as she speaks, of cubs — of his cubs and if he would condemn them if they were malformed. the question draws silent contemplation from him, a twitch of his ears and tail against his hocks. assuming he did not walk away from her, that he gave into the archaic instincts pulling at him with feverish insistence ...no. though his attempts at being a father had failed thus far, or he had left before he'd gotten to know his children. how many existed out there without his knowledge? he did not know.

he is not particularly ashamed of this, despite how it would sound.

despite that he should've been.

but it is different now, he thinks. he is different. older. wiser. calmer. the world came to him: not the other way around. he had lived his youth pillaging and plundering and conquering: his plans for the bay are not what they'd once been.

no, kjalarr replies, a bit confused as he re-ponders her question, realizing that he misunderstood the first time. all children are different.