Gyrfalcon's Keep Moldovite

rusalka watches his son, notes what he reads as an eagerness to play wrestle, bunny hop nearer, his sharp teeth bared and little growls slipping betwixt his teeth.

it was an amusing sight, but rusalka hides the amusement that he wants to let loose.

that's a good boy, he praises instead; smoky voice rich and warm like honeyed whiskey. nice show of teeth, good growls.

he would not be carved of the same cold, saltstone of his father, whose approval was an impossible thing to earn. in fact, rusalka was sure it didn't even exist.

now attack me! rusalka encourages, keeping his posture low; playful.