No rest for the wicked

The Warlord gave her the space and time to study the market. Making his way to the edges of it, he summoned Marshal and set the bird back off into the pack after a moment. Fetching his Grandson. He had chosen Wylan as one of the most charismatic and curious of Mort’s litter, and because the boy was the oldest. He couldn’t help himself, but to wonder if Wylan wouldn’t one day be an heir to this pack.

After a short while, Absinth returned to him. Her expression delighted, and the Warlord raised a brow at her, a small smile on his own lips. Something about her reminded him of the strays he occasionally adopted. Of his first adopted daughter, who had gone missing long ago. He wanted to keep her.

“You’ve made your selection?” He asked her, grabbing some blank hies and charcoal from one of the tables and settling down. Ready to make some drafts of her designs.

"Sirius Fatalis"