Fruits of Our Labor

The Warlord quivered as he stood over the scent of Iolaire on his border. She was home, she was home! and she had not even called for him. The disappointment of that was overshadowed with the joy that his sister was returned to him. Whole, and well. He had not slept well in her absence, certain that something would have befallen her well she was outside the safety of his walls.

He raced towards the den, the scent still smelled moderately fresh, and he knew she hadn’t been gone long. He just wanted to scoop her up in his arms, and celebrate having her returned to him. His. she was his, and just like everything that was his, they were not right without a good helping of his scent upon them.

With no consideration for her privacy or needing a moments peace, the Warlord arrived at the cottage, chuffed at the door to announce himself, and rushed on through.