Swiftcurrent Creek you aren't the kind of boy who should be marrying the wrong girl

Thirty-one.

He offered a low whistle. “And here I thought my parents had done decently,” he mused, though again, the shielding of any form of dark thoughts. Constantine and Durnehviir had been in love, surely—but it had also been tumultuous at times, and downright corrupted.

Another reminder of the things he had not wanted to be in life—and yet, here he stood—widowed, two missing daughters and three newly broken children.

“Decent. Ungulates,” he offered, and with a lift of his paw, he gestured they perhaps walk and talk—trying to tell himself it wasn’t that he was interested in finding out just how good she smelled up close after her little pamper session. “We can also offer fish, maybe—@Shardik was going to see if he could find a way to set up traps for them.”

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