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Old enough to bear a name, and now old enough to give his mother the slip when he pleased, Stag sauntered down to the lake at Diaspora's heart. The rocky shore had always enthralled him. The way the sun glinted off the water and onto the rocks like molten gold, the idle way fish languished out of reach yet tantalizingly close, the thousands of insects and critters he had yet to discover.. it all drew in his hungering heart, and called to him.

Sitting on the lip of a large boulder that had crashed into the water some hundred years before, Stag draped one paw lazily over the edge and watched as concentric circles radiated out on the water, pulsed into existence on the water's rippling surface by the gentle probe of one dark claw.

The moment of naming had passed and he felt no different, though he carried a new mantle bestowed by the general. It would take some time for the cub to adapt to this new sound in association to himself but maybe, in time, he could mold a new identity to suit it. Once dismissed from the company of their father the children split in to their usual affiliations — the twins together, cavorting after their independence. While his sister (@Monarch) bayed for him to go one way, the boy proved to be undecided — then, as she grew impatient and abandoned him to his whims, he stalked towards the lake and the scent of the first born until he caught sight of the water's shimmering edge.

The stillness was promptly ruined as the boy's heavy steps transitioned from a grim stalk to a full-out canter, drawing the water around him as he obnoxiously charged in to the lake for a swim. It slicked against his belly and soaked in to the fur of his chest, his throat, his cheeks as he thrashed about — then he withdrew to the edge where the shallows were only so deep so as to reach his shoulders, and he shook the excess from his back. The calm returned to the lakeside after that, with Mesa snorting water periodically from his nose and peering across the water at the distant stillness.

Things in life were never still for long. Diaspora was no exception, and the little hellraisers it called its young were a boisterous bunch, even when at their quietest. Stag's long ears drew forward as the crunch of pebbles underfoot sounded, his gaze rounding upon the surging form of his brother.

His tail rose instinctively in play. Stag lurched forward, pouncing off the lip of the ledge. He landed in the water in a cannon-ball splash, long limbs churning water as he struggled to keep his head and ears above the surface. His goal was the submerged form of his brother: in the rough play that boys were apt to do, the youth attempted to clamber across the striding back of his brother, and glom some ears in the process.

He basked for a few minutes before something hefty slammed in to the water next to him, and before he knew it, first was scrambling closer; he latched one forelimb across third's partially submerged back and pulled him towards the deeper water in the process. The boy kicked and struggled as if he were about to drown, but he managed to touch the bottom of the lake's edge and kick-off with a hind foot just enough to lift his head free for a second. As soon as his wet ears flipped out of the turbulent lake, he felt the warm breath of his brother panting across them - then the nipping of teeth, to which third tried to dissuade by turning his head and reaching awkwardly back to grab at some part of his foe. It was all in good fun; the periodic chaos of potential danger did rile some panic in him, but that merely fueled the game. The water sprayed up and splashed across them both as they struggled to one-up the other.

Stag knew enough to know of the potentials of drowning (how often had his father or mother growled they had strayed too far, or Ingram worriedly ushered them from the water's edge?), but much like his brother, he was fueled by the risk the game offered.

He splashed wildly, grabbing whatever he could, when he could. His movements were not gentle: while this was a game, it was nobler than that -- and every child knew, in the back of their mind, that games held great significance. As if their survival, and their character, was tied to the game -- win or lose.

He was grabbed roughly on the cheek; his skin snapped as Mesa released, his teeth scraping Stag's soft flesh. Stag did not yelp, despite the pain -- but he lunged roughly for his brother's head now, splashing carelessly as he went.

The boy struggled and kept trying regardless of the water, the pain, the stress of possibly drowning - trusting that his brother was only interested in the rough play and nothing more sinister; it was an innate sensation he didn't have to think about. Mesa pinched at his brother and snarled - turning water in to bubbles and foam - as he tried to get free from the pressure of Stag's presence. The more instinctual side of the boy knew that this was a test of his will, as well as his strength. In the days to come these children would grow in to their bodies and begin testing one-another in earnest.

The last thing he thought to try was ducking in to the water, letting himself be submerged, which gave him just a moment to kick off the lake bottom and try to reach the shore, and his freedom. When his paws touched upon the slime-covered stones he scrambled for the surface again, erupting with a cough and fighting his way to dry land. Lake water poured from his coat in a cascade and he shook his shoulders and face, spraying the grassy fringe — but he turned back to face Stag and promptly slapped the unsettled water of the lake's edge again, inviting him to keep playing out on the land if he dared.

In an unexpected maneuver that left Stag empty-handed, Mesa darted underwater. Stag paused, his ears flopping. Where did he go? Where was? He scanned the water expectantly, anxiously -- but the water was churned and dark, and he was unable to see his brother make his exit until the splatter of water at the banks announced his victory.

Stag turned with a bullish slowness, apprising his sly brother with a scowl. Mesa now had the higher ground - both literally and metaphorically. Stag lurched forward at a slow stumble, his head low and stride sluggish as he hauled through water and towards his brother. With a heave he attempted to clamber across the banks, right into Mesa's waiting jaws-- but Stag had his jaws parted and ready for any rebuke that came his way.

They fought a while longer before both tired; many times Mesa had overthrown Stag, and many times, Stag had scrabbled hard to reclaim the throne. Trotting jauntily back to their den, Stag took a long nap -- content and full of puppy bliss.