Neirin could see how a roving quadruplet of male wolves circling her would be a little dazing. Their colors are unique, their eyes and coats all separating them accordingly. He himself, well he was a creamy sunshine gold - like the rays of sun that fall across the meadow at the base of Trenus. His eyes, oh, they are a spectacle for sure. His eyes shine like deep tropical waters, as warm and as soothing too. The gray atop his body only serves to soften the brilliance of those colors and make him more earthly in appearance than his mother had been. Fenrir is a true black - the color of starless nights with a little silvering on the inside of his legs like a few silver clouds in that nighttime sky. His eyes are a pale green that murmur about misty dawns through the trees of a deep forest. He keeps his movements to the outside of the group, eyes taking in everything they can while the other interact more actively. Then Ifrit. His body was the color of a fresh kills new blood on snow, a few grays and tans lining the core color of deep arterial blood. His eyes, oh those green-with-envy irises, are striking in contrast to the colors of his coat. They are the green of spring leaves in the middle and summer leaves on the outside. They are striking, but they are cruel and not at all settling. Finally Seamus. Seamus was a mousey brown-black. His coat hung a little longer than the others and yet thinner as well. His eyes were as pink as the pink dogwood petals of the Indarus Thicket.
Fenrir had been silently glad of her greeting him, and Ifrit had gotten a dangerously smug grin, circling in tighter to her until Seamus had interrupted. Their dynamics are easy to discern. Neirin demands their loyalty and obedience. Fenrir watches their backs, playing his part as lieutenant perfectly. Ifrit gives them all a thrill of excitement and a reason to be much better than their brother. Seamus adds a keen mind for memory and a great dark horse in a fight. The mass of movements and attempts to sniff the new female end abruptly with Neirins demands and finally Doe has another chance to speak. Neirin looks at her with an air about him, a invisible and metaphorical protective wing keeping her safe from the bombardment of his companions. “Doe? It is a… gentle name.” He smiles, wincing because he knows just how this will all go down and he knows how little it is worth for him to get mad at Ifrit over what comes next.
THE SHINING PRINCE OF OLD MOLADION
the head of the original fantastic four
first born of moladion and first child of trenus
eleven - no imprint - no pack - no rank
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