Blackfeather Woods we are animal hungry down to our delicate bones

wintersbane's endeavor to not touch astara's flesh with his teeth was successful; however, his teeth did take away some loose tendrils of fur. he does his best to spit it out as he watches her puff with gratification as she prances in a circle around him. he has to chuckle; a low, rumbling sound under his breath. he cannot begrudge her her pride. he was much the same way when he was her age. he remembers 'sparring' with chusi in much a similar manner and how his older sister had allowed him to 'win'. he'd been full of pride then, he remembers, crowing about unparalleled skill with all the naivety of a child who doesn't know the game was thrown.

it was not a bad thing to encourage though, wintersbane feels. it's true that he's more or less playing these lessons with the shadow by ear. he's learning how to be a cubsitter and interact with her as he goes, mentally cataloging what works and what doesn't. so far, it hasn't been too terribly difficult. he wonders ( and not for the first time as of late ) if being a father will be the same as being a cubsitter.

the tundrian's glacial gaze refocuses back upon astara — briefly drawn from their play as the leaves of a tree nearby rustled before a squirrel came scrambling down the trunk chattering angrily to itself ( he did not think anything particularly dangerous lurked in the canopy of the trees but he's constantly vigilant ). her tail lashes behind him in an obvious challenge. he lunges forward — always mindful to reorient himself as to not actually hurt her — and snapped his teeth at her again, bracing in a roll of shoulders for her retaliation.