09-08-2018, 12:57 PM
[align=center][div style="text-align: justify; width: 55%; font-family: georgia; font-size: 10pt; letter-spacing: 0px;"]Suiteheart and Margaery's deaths should never have happened. Imperia still thinks of them sometimes, and wonders why those wonderful women were taken away. So many people loved them, relied on them--it was unfair. But Peri knows in her heart that everything happens for a reason. The Maker allows bad things to happen so that people know when good times finally come around. Life is a constant balance of good and bad, right and wrong, and everything in between. The she-wolf knows better than to question it. All she can do is what is within her abilities and to accept the things which are beyond her control.
But how does one explain this sort of thing to a child? To a youth who has yet to understand the fragile balance of life and death? Imperia noticed a couple days ago that Alexander has yet to heal over the deaths of Suit and Margy. His current physical state alarms her, and she wasted no time in preparing to help nurse him back to help in whatever manner she can.
"Salut, mon petit chou," greets the lovely she-wolf as she approaches the young boy. "Since it has been getting a bit cooler, I thought you would like some roasted pheasant." It is home-cooked and freshly made, a faint cloud of steam rising from the top of the wicker basket which now rests between her paws. Imperia does not outwardly accuse him of failing to monitor his health just yet, and instead chooses to take the less offensive path for now. "How are you feeling, mon cheri?" she asks, her voice gentle and soothing. Maybe he will speak with her, maybe he won't. It is worth trying, at least.
But how does one explain this sort of thing to a child? To a youth who has yet to understand the fragile balance of life and death? Imperia noticed a couple days ago that Alexander has yet to heal over the deaths of Suit and Margy. His current physical state alarms her, and she wasted no time in preparing to help nurse him back to help in whatever manner she can.
"Salut, mon petit chou," greets the lovely she-wolf as she approaches the young boy. "Since it has been getting a bit cooler, I thought you would like some roasted pheasant." It is home-cooked and freshly made, a faint cloud of steam rising from the top of the wicker basket which now rests between her paws. Imperia does not outwardly accuse him of failing to monitor his health just yet, and instead chooses to take the less offensive path for now. "How are you feeling, mon cheri?" she asks, her voice gentle and soothing. Maybe he will speak with her, maybe he won't. It is worth trying, at least.