(no subject)
I seem to have acquired a feline. I was uncertain of its origins, which spoke volumes more than I would like. The reasons for him to retain such a form remain a mystery to myself, but as of yet he's refused pleas to leave and return to his mortal guise. At least his mercurial moods are tempered by the small form, though the scratches testify to how little.
I appear to be "nephew" this visit. Seems a lesser jest than "son" and less intended to wound than "brother." One can only assume a manic mood to fit him for the moment. One fears my mood will sour in accordance. He has yet to speak of Svirre's death, but that was when he last spoke to me, aside from the stint in Spain. That was a grave error and I entirely blame loneliness for even speaking to the brute. There's little to be done for the moment, save pray his boredom is born soon and he'll leave me be. I best turn off the "lesbian lovefest lullabies" before he decides to scratch my leg to further ribbons.