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Libertad grins at d’Arcy’s laughter before he joins in with some giggles of his own. There is nothing quite as satisfying as to make his sister happy. He opens his mouth to say more but then his mother comes down on him. There a sharp nip on his hindquarters which elicits a squeal and both ears pin against his skull. Part of him wants to kick out at his mother, not let himself be so easily pushed around but decides against it.. The fae knows that it will only be rewarded with another nip on his hind area.
“Yes Ma,” Libertad grumbles, though he doesn’t offer up any apologies. There is nothing to apologize for. He meant what he had said.. The red man in front of him was ugly, regardless of whether he is his sire or not. D’Arcy swoops in with sweet apologies. For once he won’t follow her example. He is not graced with such delicate diplomatic abilities.. d’Arcy is kthe blossom of the rose and he is the thorns, his sole purpose to protect and sting. No matter how little protection his sister might offer him he is always ready to bleed for her, let his own blood mix with that of his roses.
Even as his father offers forgiveness, Libertad is not sorry. He glances over at the dog and mumbles to himself under his breath. Only when d’Arcy inquires about their father’s home does he grow intrigued. As Déodat explains the north he makes a face.
“Why stay where it’s cold?” Libertad looks over at his mother, “Why would you want to be an icicle?” He tilts his head as he stares over at his father.
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