Eager to clean - at least here

Artorias watched Thorn as his small son scurried about the armory, snatching up the used cleaning cloths like his life's mission depended on it. It made the giant father chuckle with a crooked smile on his face, his eyes shining with a mirth and pride for his child. While he busied himself storing away tools into the workshop cabinets and drawers, he watched the little bolt of blue lightning dart around between his paws and underneath tables, grabbing up every rag he could find. Thorn's energy amazed and amused Artorias to no end. He had no idea what to expect when he'd first learned he was going to be a father, but every day he found himself learning a little more about himself and about the five little lives he'd helped create.

Thorn's voice piped up after a moment, declaring that the rags contained a funny smell, then asked what it was used for. Artorias chuckled and turned to look down at his inquisitive son with a lopsided smile. "That's the smell of oil," he explained to his curious child. "Oil is used to make sure the blades and woods of our weapons stay supple and ready for battle. Just like when you take a bath, a sword needs oil to make sure it can stay sharp and clean. A clean sword cuts clean, and we always want clean cuts. Remember that, Thorn." Artorias set back to putting away the last of the whetstones and when he turned back around, he spotted Thorn trying to wriggle his tiny paw through a narrow gap beside one of the workbenches. Art raised a curious brow and quietly tiptoed up behind his son, peering through the gap to see what Thorn was up to. When he spied the forgotten rag, he put two and two together and nearly laughed aloud. Oh, his diligent to a fault son...!

Doing his best to stifle a snicker, Artorias wordlessly stepped up to the workbench and slid his whole body beneath the table, then rose to allow his strength and weight to lift the workbench and widen the gap to Thorn could easily reach his prize. The father beamed while he watched his pup go for the rag, and once Thorn had procured it, he carefully lowered the workbench back down with a little flex of his dire wolf strength. "Good job, Thorn! The armory is looking much better already!" he said while looking around the room. Thorn had been an excellent help and well behaved around the weapons, so Artorias figured he could reward his son just a bit. Giving the blue-furred pup a roguish smirk, Art asked, "Would you like to help me polish some of the weapons?"

"Artorias" | "Carpathian"