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Description
Tzilan
Late Summer, Year 758 of the New Age, Windborne, Northern edge of Westhaven

Well, more like, summer of deciding to fulfil one's biological obligations.

TZILAN IS SUCH A ROMANTIC

If you were wondering - yes, this does mean he'll be available for breeding in the next rut

The Cape was becoming more and more desolate.
This year there had been only the barest handful of fawns born to the windsinging herd. Their numbers were dropping as elderly followers of Molach joined him in the north and even with the strength of their magic they were weaker for it.
Tzilan believed he knew what must be done, though it pained him to do it. Since her… since the fight with that brutish roaned stag he had given no thought to rut. He had run for so long and then he had come here and it had been so easy to stand aside and lose himself in meditation that he had not even caught the scent of a hind in heat.
This year would be different. The summer winds were blowing hot and passions were boiling in the normally peaceful Cape. The peace with the Point - no, the alliance, he reminded himself - had given more confidence to the herd. The windsingers were bolder now they had the brawn of the amazonian does behind them.
They had grazed the edge of Westhaven this summer - not so far inland that the main herd would notice, not yet, but they had tasted fresh grass for the first time in years. His stormbringers had stood calmly on Point Danger to protect the does in winter and they had stood stoically by as his raggedy band of lean companions gorged themselves on meadow flowers.
This year, they were fat and full and happy, despite their thinning ranks. This year visiting herbalists had come and for the first time not found them wanting the most basic of medicines.
This year was the time to give in to the animal. This year was the time to claim his right as leader.
This year, he would swell the ranks and bellies of his herd; this year he would father children.

Description
Tzilan
Late Summer, Year 758 of the New Age, Windborne, Northern edge of Westhaven

Well, more like, summer of deciding to fulfil one's biological obligations.

TZILAN IS SUCH A ROMANTIC

If you were wondering - yes, this does mean he'll be available for breeding in the next rut

The Cape was becoming more and more desolate.
This year there had been only the barest handful of fawns born to the windsinging herd. Their numbers were dropping as elderly followers of Molach joined him in the north and even with the strength of their magic they were weaker for it.
Tzilan believed he knew what must be done, though it pained him to do it. Since her… since the fight with that brutish roaned stag he had given no thought to rut. He had run for so long and then he had come here and it had been so easy to stand aside and lose himself in meditation that he had not even caught the scent of a hind in heat.
This year would be different. The summer winds were blowing hot and passions were boiling in the normally peaceful Cape. The peace with the Point - no, the alliance, he reminded himself - had given more confidence to the herd. The windsingers were bolder now they had the brawn of the amazonian does behind them.
They had grazed the edge of Westhaven this summer - not so far inland that the main herd would notice, not yet, but they had tasted fresh grass for the first time in years. His stormbringers had stood calmly on Point Danger to protect the does in winter and they had stood stoically by as his raggedy band of lean companions gorged themselves on meadow flowers.
This year, they were fat and full and happy, despite their thinning ranks. This year visiting herbalists had come and for the first time not found them wanting the most basic of medicines.
This year was the time to give in to the animal. This year was the time to claim his right as leader.
This year, he would swell the ranks and bellies of his herd; this year he would father children.