Gyrfalcon's Keep son of a sinner

rusalka listens as she speaks; ever quiet. contemplative, considering of her traditions and thinking of his own.

only to feel the soft twist in stomach, the phantom ice of water too cold as it needles his flesh and his lungs. the drop was an ... unnecessarily cruel cairn tradition that rusalka finds himself balking at when facing even the faintest thoughts of subjecting his own children to it.

he wouldn't. and the force in which he held to his ground on that as if he were an immovable mountain was a bit staggering. reflect a change in himself that perhaps he hadn't been aware of until that moment.

if you desire such a feast and spar ... perhaps in spring? the children will be older and the coming months may bring new faces to our hearth. he suggests, but for now, a hunt, an outing with the children and a night for just us, his deep timbre strikes low upon those words, a crooning lullaby; smoky. sounds good.