#secretly-a-demon house dog barbas my beloved

[faolan-red-eagle]

can we pretty please get some content of papa ru telling his kids a bedtime story? 🥺🙏❤

xoxo @reachfolk

Absolutely!! This is Epilogue Content bc Babies 

Ruaidri scooped up the little ones, tiny four-year-old Cynwrig giggling and six-year-old Yagraz trying to protest bedtime, settling the two with their older siblings in the huge bed. (His trousers pinched a bit, at his waist, and he mentally sighed at the thought of taking the seams out again. Having children (and, admittedly, quite a lot of sweets) was apparently terrible for one’s weight, but he didn’t mind it as much as some people (idiots) thought he should.) 

Lucia, now almost eighteen, dragged a grumbling sixteen-year-old Aventus with her, cheerfully exclaiming that she had “captured a Dark Brotherhood agent”. Twelve-year-old Sissel and fourteen-year-old Alesan kept hold of the younger ones, and Ghorza entered with four-month-old baby Angharad Eithne (Eithne had cried when she heard the name) in her arms. Baby Hara made grabby hands for her Adad, and he was weak in the face of those blue eyes. Ruaidri gently transferred his littlest hatchling into his arms, wincing a bit when she immediately yanked at his beard. (Every time, she did this. He really should shave, but Nirya rather liked his facial hair, so it was a bit of a dilemma.) 

“Story time!” Lucia cheered, making space on the bed for her parents, just as excited as she had been years ago when he’d told a tiny eight-year-old a bedtime story for the first time. (Gods, but it had been ten years already. How had that happened? He was as old now as his own father had been when Mairenn was born.) 

“Yes, yes, fledgling, story time. Which one do you want to hear? It’s your turn to pick tonight.” 

“What about... the story of the Riddling God?” 

Aventus groaned, and Ruaidri frowned at him. Honestly, sometimes he just... did not understand his oldest son, much as he tried to. With the red face paint and the black clothes and the general surliness... An odd boy, to be sure. “Hey, none of that now, Avé, it’s a good story, and your turn is next week. Settle down, all of you.” The children settled eventually, with a great deal of squirming and one giggly slap-fight that Ghorza had to break up. (He adored Lucien, but he was never letting the man make sugared milk for the children ever again.) 

“Alright,” Ruaidri said, once everyone was comfortable. “The Riddling God. Once, there was a proud shaman who thought himself the cleverest person to exist, boasting that he was even cleverer than the Riddling God Vohl-Cerach himself. The shaman went to the shrine of Vohl-Cerach, certain that he could prove the better silver-tongue and thus attain godhood. Vohl-Cerach appeared to the shaman, loyal aspect Barreibis by his side. “Who would boast of such a thing?” asked Vohl-Cerach. 

“I do,” said the shaman, puffing out his chest. 

“So I see,” said Vohl-Cerach. “And who are you, that you make such claims?” 

But the shaman was clever, and refused to give the crafty god his name. “I am Myself,” the shaman said, “and that is all the name you will have from me.” 

“Very well, Myself,” replied Vohl-Cerach, seeing the man knew what giving one’s name to the Riddling God would do. “You are indeed clever, I will grant you that. But we shall see if you are wise! If you give not your name to me, in any disguise I shall wear, for three months, then you may take my place as God of Cleverness.” 

The shaman left, convinced this task would be easy: after all, all he had to do was not give his name. The shaman went into the wood, to live alone for the time allotted in the bargain, sure in his cleverness that if he met no one, he would not be tempted to tell his name to anyone. For three months he was alone, avoiding all humans and even animals, lest he be tempted to speak to them. On the last day of the three month period, he went into the nearest Imperial town, and requested the services of a priestess of the God Sanguine, God of Revels. The shaman celebrated, thinking his ascension was at hand. The priestess, a woman of great beauty, nearly struck the shaman senseless, so great was her loveliness. “Kind sir,” the priestess said, holding out her hand. “Might I have your name?” 

And like a fool, the shaman gave it to her. So Vohl-Cerach had his answer after all, and the shaman was forced to dance for the Riddling God’s amusement until his bones turned to dust, as price for such mockery.” 

“Adad?” said Yagraz sleepily. “I don’t want to lose my name.” 

Ruaidri chuckled, tapping her little nose. “You won’t, little one. The bone-chimes at the doors and windows that your Aunt Mairenn made, they keep the Riddling God from listening in, and finding your names. Besides,” he said, giving a certain wolfhound a good scratch behind the ears, “our dear Barbas here wouldn’t let him, isn’t that right, Barbas?” Barbas woofed in response, tongue lolling out of his mouth in doggie pleasure, and curled up at the foot of the children’s bed, as he had done every night for years.