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Taraxa was feeling restless, and with that restlessness came a serious attitude problem. There were only three things that could put him at ease and rip him out of the awful mood he was in. A viking. A spar. A lady.

Aesir had approached him about the viking. That would be coming as soon as the Warlord found himself ready. His head still ached from the unfortunate meeting with that awful lioness that Gunnar had warned him about. That left one thing that he was in the mood for.

The company of a female. Nymph came to mind first, but she was feeling rather sour towards Taraxa as of late. He didn't think he could handle her sharp tongue and even sharper claws at the moment. His spitfire. The thought of her brought a ghost of a smile to his features.

That smile deepened when he spotted another female Reaver. He knew her name, knew that she was born here, but really hadn't interacted with the lioness. She was a lovely one, and perhaps she would be just what Taraxa needed to get his head straight.

"Lioness," he fairly bellowed at her, eyes bright. It was a poor excuse for a greeting, but he didn't much like using the more traditional greetings that the pride once had used but did not speak often these days.

Taraxa bit back a snort. Females. You could never say anything right to them. He was starting to wonder why he even bothered. Then he remembered how nice it felt when females were fawning all over him, though it hadn't happened in a long while. A long, long while. Sigh.

Part of him was itching for a fight, but the other part of him wanted to just have some company. He would try his best, Taraxa supposed, and see where he got. Perhaps she would take a liking to him and would commence with the fawning and ego-stroking. If only.

"The world has been treating me well enough," he grunted, "And yourself, Zsaria?" He was trying to be polite, trying to treat her like a lady. Perhaps this would be the best tactic. "You are looking lovely today," he commented idly. She was a rather striking female, and perhaps the pretty words would get him in her good graces.

Taraxa sighed -- softly, he didn't want her to hear that pitiful sound -- and eyed her with a bit more interest. This wouldn't be easy, but perhaps with time and the right approach she would be a bit more keen and agreeable to him. For now, conversation seemed to be the best route.

"Perhaps the swooning will come with time," he winked at her, patting himself on the shoulder with that suave comeback. "I do prefer my women with a bit of bite." Let her take that as she would.

"My cubs are strong. Bold. My daughters are beautiful and wise. What more could a Stormborn ask for?"

He liked the sound of that. He really liked the sound of that.

"My cubs will bring me honor. They are my legacy, and I give them the training I know they need in order to live up to that task." This was said with utmost seriousness. Taraxa fully believed that his children - and his children's children - would bring him honor long after he was gone. "I will not train them to be weak and malicious. They will be strong, they will love their father and have pride in one another." He would never accept otherwise.

"Honor is important. My legacy is important. My cubs are important." He grinned at her, "Then again, having fun once in a bit is important too, Zsaria."

Taraxa listened to each word she spoke, finding a small bit of sadness in her words. If one of his daughters came to him and said that she had the desire to become a Reaver, Taraxa would show her what that meant. If she then decided she wanted to train as a Reaver, Taraxa would allow it. Sure, he would like for his daughters to grow to be Preistesses or Lawspeakers, but he would never force them to do something that they could not take pride in. Pride is the seed from which honor grows - squelching that would kill off any hope of nurturing honor.

And honor was important to Taraxa.

"I agree with all that you say, Zsaria. Except," he paused, giving her an honest look, "that you are a scarred mess." Taraxa shook his head, "No. Your scars are beautiful on you. They show of your battles, your hard work, your strength. You are not a mess." He chuckled, shaking his head again. "No, you are anything but a mess."

Taraxa laughed brashly, lifting up a large paw to clap it against her shoulder. "Ahh, I would say it any day. Bring me a bright young lioness any day, and I would gladly turn her down for a lioness who knows what honor and pride mean. A lioness with scars that tell the story of her life. The ups and down, the challenges both won and lost."

Taraxa nodded sagely. "I am a Stormborn. I know what I desire, and I take it." He wouldn't today. Someday, perhaps.

The lion snorted, watching her walk away. He was in no mood for a swim, though perhaps he would tag along to keep her company. Her challenge did not go unnoticed no matter how veiled it was, but Taraxa didn't bite. He was feeling more thoughtful now, more introspective after their brief conversation.

"I fear nothing," he boasted, "Especially not water." That was partially true. "I will keep you company while you swim, and we will continue our conversation. I cannot stay long," he sent a glance over his shoulder briefly, "as my sons will come looking for me any time."