Black Morass mauritius

it is in the arms of his pregnant wife does he feel most at ease. relishing in the warmth of her fur, and the sweet of her scent. he has committed her to memory, in more ways than one.

he swipes a large paw beneath her chin, up her cheek, where he cups her face lovingly. possessively. pressing kiss after kiss to her face; her forehead, nose bridge, cheek and eyes. swathing her in his affections. affections only for her, and no other. but a man like he can turn affection to a sea of blood within moments.

he is by no means a gentle man. he is turbulent. a surging source of war and violence. but she tempers him.

his voice is grizzled when he speaks: no wrath. he clutches her close, looking fondly to her eyes. today i am content. admittance. he lets his wife go, but he ensures she is close to him. asking her to walk with him through their morass with a nudge to her cheek. our empire grows. our children fill your womb. the morass waits to consume those who would be our enemies.