Harshing held the baby in his arms, rock rock rock. He stroked Mark's head with his talonesque fingers, however he was soft, so soft anyone would think he had been a father for many years. "Shhhh," he whispered to his servants who were passing through. He carried it to the window and looked out into the starlight - a sickmoon looked down on twisted calves, bedding beside aging yews. The spine of life straightened a little. Harshing kissed Mark's forehead.

"I will call you Jason."