Little Goat Mountain [m] eyetooth

His paw inched upward—curling about her as he pressed her back closer to his chest, feeling the thrum of heartbeat beneath his touch and reveling in this moment silently. Eivor was grace and power in beautiful package—he almost looked forward to watching her within battle—for surely, at some point, the two would find themselves among it.

Ears cupping forward as she spoke, he rested his head back—eyes seeking the stars, though his attention rapt upon her. Amusement flickered upon his darkened features at the mention of her parents and their banter—quelling the surge of quiet remorse that he would never grasp something like this for himself.

“And then you found your way to Kvarsheim?” A vague question—allowing her to answer as openly or indifferently as she wished.

Her inquiry was natural—but he loosed a small breath, despite it. “Beautiful,” he noted to her, a smug expression flashing through his gaze as they roved over her once more, a paw drifting further down to her hi[, as if to temper his ego at his current companion. “Gaelic—one of the languages passed down along the Mayfair’s.” It was something he had wished to teach his children—but the opportunity nor interest had ever come about. “Rumors or stories would link the Mayfair’s to witchcraft. My father was born in these mountains, though my grandparents would later claim a forest closer to the coast… Donnelaith. My aunts born there were apparently powerful witches—not that my father would indicate he believed in such a thing. My mother was born in the Creek, though her birth pack disintegrated. But it was where she wanted to raise her family, so they made a claim there.”

Blinking once more to the sky, he took solace in the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. “Mostly, I just remember them fighting. Eventually, they moved out of the Teekon Wilds.”