Qeya River [m] ghosts

a smile comes, this one more characteristic for the man; full of amusement, and yet still gentle. lacking the aggressive bravado he so often wields. i intend to make it, princess. and i will see you there. and the way he speaks the words, they ring as true.

in every scenario of death he has dreamt up since he was a boy, he has went as a warrior. fighting with valor, strength. the perfect death for the man is to go by the teeth of his strongest son in the traditions of yore. this is what he tells her, now, as he turns; shoulder rippling with muscle beneath a coat of onyx. when i go, it shall be by bloodletting.

he is under no assumption she knows what he's referring to. roud, bearish ears pull upwards to listen to the sounds of her feet padding after him as he walks. my firstborn son will challenge me when i am gray and old. when i am ready to lay down my banner.

she has shared intimate details of her culture with him, within this icy dell, and he will do the same. his voice rumbles with a warrior's masculinity, recalling the olden and forsaken traditions. and i will die a warrior's death; if dracul sees fit to grant me this honor. this is the sacred way of crownore father and son. the false ones have forgotten it.