he lets out a low, warm chuckle at that, his wings twitching faintly with amusement.
ah… then perhaps they would get along wonderfully with my daughter
his voice softens with obvious fondness at the mention of her
my dear Thistle is much the same. tiny… loud… and absolutely fearless
there’s a quiet pride in the way he says it, even if it comes bundled with endless parental concern. he gives a small shake of his head, though the affection never leaves his tone
but i shall let Styx take his time...
his posture eases further as he settles himself fully beside Styx, movements slow and mindful so as not to overwhelm the kit
there is no need to rush him into everything at once
his wings unfold naturally around the small space beside him, not trapping—just sheltering, warm and soft as the dangling sleeve of his robe sways playfully over Styx. He moves it gently, teasingly, allowing the child to bat at it at his own pace.
and for a moment, something about Batsby changes
the heaviness usually clinging to him loosens, the constant caution, the exhaustion buried deep in his posture, the grief worn into every careful movement—all of it fades just enough to reveal the person he must have once been
younger, lighter, a father before loss hollowed pieces from him
his quiet laugh comes easier now as the sleeve shifts again over Styx’s head, playful in a way he rarely allows himself to be anymore
there now… i think you are already figuring out how to win this game, little one
