Bearclaw Valley her perfume crucified me with memories

o god not the toddler inquisition

a soft smile blossomed on indra's features to hear her son's rendition of 'weasel'; and like a flower it faded petal by petal, replaced by a more stony type of stoicism. a toy, a meal, it mattered not -- so long as her prince was pleased.

she lifted her gaze from the tattered weasel as merrick's inquisitive query finished, her eyes searching among the bent leaves for the quiet departure of their packmate. "to find you more toys, of course." she rumbled, snagging the tail of the weasel and dragging it enticingly across the stone with a secretive smile.