Redhawk Caldera The monsters are here.

Considering her track record, this delivery was downright boring. Towhee gave birth to a son first, his fur so dark brown it was nearly black. Shortly after that came two girls. Finally, a fourth and final pup arrived, only half the size of his litter mates. The Elder tended to him just like the others, though she tried to harden her heart. She sensed he wasn’t long for this world, which was probably for the best. Four was… too many a lot.

It was all said and done by late afternoon on All Hallows’ Eve. Outside, cold rain continued falling fast and hard, though everything was cozy and warm in the back of the Hobbit Hole. Towhee dozed while the foursome fed, waking every now and then to check on them or smile sleepily at the faces bobbing around them.

One of her great grandchildren roused her around suppertime. Before she fed herself, Towhee gingerly stood and made her way to the den’s entrance. She hesitated on the threshold, noting every ache and pain in her body, then stepped outdoors. A loud hiss escaped her as the icy rain hit her scarred back. She toileted quickly, then stepped back inside and shook out her fur.

She had been gone for no more than five minutes, yet when she lay back down beside the four puppies, she discovered that her son had gone still. And it wasn’t the one she had already come to expect. Towhee blinked down at the firstborn—she’d been planning to call him Marmot, of course—and gently attempted to rouse him. But he was limp and cooling rapidly.

With great tenderness, she lifted him away from his siblings, capturing @Hotah’s attention to relay, -He didn’t make it.- She gave that a moment to land, then pointed her snout at the den’s ceiling, where the tree’s roots dangled into the Hobbit Hole. -Will you please take him and bury him beneath the tree?-

She took a moment to gaze down at Marmot’s tiny corpse, wondering what might have gone wrong. She certainly hadn’t stepped on this one. But it really wasn’t worth speculating. Towhee licked his lifeless brow, then motioned for Hotah to take his little body away for burial. She then curled more tightly around the three remaining pups, her attention lingering on the tiniest. Would he survive the night, or follow in his brother’s footsteps?

There wasn’t much to do besides dream in this preconscious state. When birth inevitably roused him, a thought echoed in his tiny brain: Five more minutes… He stayed awake in the immediate aftermath, only to return to his dreamscape the moment he was tucked someplace warm again. Curling into a ball like a kitten, he slipped back into his dreams, where he wrapped his legs around a small red fox and held her tightly.

Hotah had known the quiet of grief before, but never did it seem to weigh so heavily as it did now— here, in the hush of the Hobbit Hole, where even the rain outside seemed to still in mourning.
His eyes lifted when Towhee stirred, catching the faint tremor in her movements, the wet gleam in her gaze. He did not need her to speak— the air itself had changed. The world held its breath.
When her voice brushed against his mind, soft and brittle as smoke— he didn’t make it— Hotah felt something cold settle beneath his ribs. For a moment, he said nothing, only nodded once, a small, reverent tilt of his head that promised understanding. His gaze followed the gesture she made toward the roots above, where life still clung to the earth even in the deep chill of autumn.
Yeah, he murmured, voice low, thick with warmth despite the ache that threaded through it. I’ll take him.
He moved gently. The pup was so small— smaller than his own paw— and yet, in his stillness, there was a peace that needed no words. Hotah cradled Marmot’s tiny body with care, pressing his muzzle briefly to the soft down of the boy’s fur. Sleep easy, little one, he whispered, breath catching on the words.
Outside, the rain had softened into mist, the kind that kissed rather than cut. Hotah dug beneath the great roots, the soil rich and dark beneath his claws. When the hole was ready, he set the pup within it, nestled among leaves and moss, and covered him tenderly until the mound was smooth and still.
He stood for a long while after, head bowed, before murmuring to the earth itself: Keep him close. Let him dream of warm things.
When he returned to the den, he lingered at the mouth of it, shaking the damp from his fur before settling beside Towhee once more. His gaze found hers, steady and full of quiet strength.
He rests now, Hotah said softly. Beneath the roots— where the tree will remember him.

The tiny grey puppy who would eventually be known as Splenda Fartyman Splendid Fairywren was unremarkable at birth. A quiet girl, hardly any different from her siblings. Small but healthy... for now.

The ordeal of being born had left her quite exhausted, and she soon slipped into a fitful first sleep. It was the first beat of a rhythm that would soon materialize into yet another problem for her poor mother: Splendid Fairywren wasn't much of a milk drinker. She preferred sparkling water, actually.

trying a different posting style for her— may change throughout loll

beneath the hum of mother’s heart,
tawny lark began her start —
a wiggle, a squirm, a snuffle, a sigh,
a tiny thing that wouldn’t die.

her paws were clouds, her nose a star,
she didn’t yet know who or where they are,
but milk! oh milk! that dream so sweet —
she rooted round for something to eat.

a squeak, a hiccup, a little sneeze,
her world all warmth and mother’s knees,
and though the night was cold and stark,
inside there bloomed one tawny lark.

She couldn’t help but feel a little intrusive, though the Redhawks seemed to welcome her presence and Pie would not miss this for the world. It was a blessing unlike any other to share Towhee’s space during this sacred ritual, to bear witness as her little relatives came into the world and bestowed upon Towhee the title of anaa once more.

It was her honor to rustle up some nourishing food for the Elder, who dozed with her aged body curled around the neonates. Treepie gently brushed the top of the matriarch’s head to wake her, although her eyes were fixed upon the puppies. There were four, each small and utterly perfect.

Towhee needed to step outside momentarily, leaving her pups in the other wolves’ collective care. Tiuttuk didn’t dare touch them, though she continued to stare, fascinated and enamored. A profound feeling welled within her, further solidifying the foundation of an already steadfast dream: one day, she would bear her own children.

When the Elder returned just to discover something was amiss with one of the newborns, it stunned Pie. She shrank back as the atmosphere inside the Hobbit Hole shifted, now tinged with grief. Everyone mourned the startling loss, herself included, but the yearling knew these things just happened sometimes.

The day drew to a close. Treepie folded herself down beside her taataa, still facing Towhee and her brood. She could hardly wait to take this news back to Dawnspear, though at the same time, she never wanted to leave. She would savor this familial, multigenerational feeling for as long as she could, then carry it home with her.

Anyone’s still welcome to post a cameo. This’ll be my last, then I’ll archive in a week or so.

Hotah returned from his grave task, informing her that Marmot now rested beneath the tree as she’d asked. Her orange eyes tracked upward to the ceiling, wondering if it was morbid to be glad their child was “watching over them” in a sense. It was probably also terrible of her that she was a little relieved to pare the litter down to three. Worst of all, she wouldn’t mourn too deeply if the runt perished in the night, though she would do everything in her power to prevent that.

She didn’t really have any words just now, so she just gave Hotah a long look before returning her attention to the newborns. The two girls wriggled quite a bit more than their remaining brother, though they didn’t fuss much… for now. Towhee smiled at them, then decided to move the runt a little closer to her head and her most anterior teat.

-Let’s name them tomorrow. I’m going to rest my eyes,- she told their father and anybody else who might be looking her way.

After making sure her tiny son was latched, Towhee let her head drift down over him, creating a pocket of protective warmth. She let her heavy eyelids fall, shutting out the world and leaving her with only one easily reachable sense: touch. She reveled in the tactility of her three newest children against her aging, weary body as she drifted off to sleep.