Whitefish River A rake of claws against a mirror

small, yippy pup beside him ; a contrast of old and young, and though iseldur was not all that weathered, he found himself lumbering like a man of many days, of moons and seasons that had passed long ago. but the way in which he moved was different from how he held himself ; a pride ran through his bones, his veins, a cord taut though his neck, holding his head high, almost proud. a strength that ran deep within him.

though they had parted for a day, perhaps two, his son was never too far, and now as the trekked side by side, the sunman looked forwards. a woman, by scent, though certainly no wolf. a tail flick ordered the squires silence, a whisper to be on alert, for it was a canine that stood up ahead, unlike either of them, though perhaps closer to cathal than to iseldur. it is a dog, came gaelic tongue. like you, cathal. should we say hello?

he did not hide his sons heritage from him, rather, embraced it.

it was the boys call, now.