Gyrfalcon's Keep Moldovite

rusalka gets no verbal answer from baldr; only a chuckle and a nod. oof, drawls rusalka with a shake of his head in an effort to shake it off; perhaps playing into it. almost dramatic, like. how a parent might when they wished to encourage and build up their children's self esteem. poor kids are gettin' bulldozed by a tank. rusalka says in his chuckle; his pride undisputed.

this time, when baldr lowers into a playbow, rusalka mimics; golden gaze sharp on his son, unable to help but hope that he doesn't get headbutted again.

to rusalka's relief, bruiser doesn't go for another headbutt, but this time, makes to pounce on his front foot. rusalka resists the urge to pull it back, to follow through with what instincts and muscles scream at him: to pull his footback and grasp the boy by the scruff.

this was play. this was training.

baldr's pounce makes contact. good! booms the patriarch.