Hoshor Plains love into a weapon

the warbear was best not left to the delicacies of treaties and alliances — he didn't have the silvered spoon'd mouth for it. he was the blue collared husband that would rather toil his days turning the red clay dirt and tending to the herd then making nice with neighbors.

his steps slow at nephele's approach, head lifting from the borders he was tending. dirt smudged his cheek and he lets out a soft noise of appreciation: but boy, was she a sight for sore eyes. their time had been taken away from each other, tending to their respective duties, instinctively divided between the leading pair.

well, hey there pretty lady, coos the wrangler, a stupid, sloppy grin on his lips.