Herbalists' Cache muradoii II

backdated to before the conflict / pups were born!

snow packed at her flanks. the shelter stank of root, blood, old bone. just how she preferred it; a foul pregnancy craving.
sivaak stirs now. her belly taut, swollen. sides twitching; she snarls softly under her breath—her skin burns. it is too warm.
black hawk. she growls.
she noses past dried herbs, tail sweeping, crouching to slip from the mouth of the snow den. fresh air slapping her face, which she drinks eagerly and grunts. the effort to move has become tremendous.
come now. voice sharp. or the sea take you already?
a demanding, hungry wife. she waits, heavy belly brushing frost, red eyes narrowed to slits.

the stench was something hawk quickly had become accustomed to. it licked at her nose, filling each breath; it was a price she was willing to pay for the muradoii woman. each day she'd witnessed the woman's sides grow, and each day a maternal instinct stirred inside her. they were not her cubs by blood, but she claimed them nonetheless. just as her wife had claimed her. it was not met with protest. the woman was...brutal, but there was a grim beauty to it.

beguiling, even if hawk was met with fang and blood. and so when her woman beckoned, she came. slipping outside the den to join her. brushing against that swollen side of hers, uncaring if she was met with a sneer or snap of jaws. it was a risk she was willing to take. "sea will never take me." she answers gruffly. a chuff of affection, she does not let the woman go two steps before she's scenting her. reaffirming the claim. her woman.

"you are hungry?" hawk's voice is still rough with sleep. but she is ready; always ready. a hungry wife meant hungrier pups. and she was nothing if not dutiful enough to provide.  "tell me what you want to eat." whatever it may be, she would slay it. for her mate and for the pups that stir within sivaak's womb

sivaak grunts low. she does not jerk away when black hawk brushes her; the swollen side of her belly quivers beneath the touch. her teeth bare, but not in warning. it is only the habit of a war-torn hunter.
hawk stink of moss, she mutters, not truly insult. her breath curls in the cold as red eyes flick toward hawk. acceptance lives there, buried beneath war and frost.
meat. she says at last. not rabbit. not rat. not dry bird. her tongue swipes the corner of her mouth, voice roughening. find sivaak marrow. fat. a pause follows. sivaak feed pups now.
she leans, only barely, into the warmth of black hawk’s shoulder. sivaak come with. watch you hunt. red eyes glinting with not quite affection, but something more primal.