Noctisardor Bypass what stupid poem could fix this home?

Druid roved through the morning mist, holding a beaver in her jaws and a sigh in her chest. She emerged at the edge of the den site in Dawnleaf, her arrival heralded by songbirds. The clearing was empty and quiet. She assumed everyone might still be asleep, since it was only half an hour past daybreak.

She set down her kill, then tiptoed toward the entrance to the den. Druid peeked inside, then retreated to sit at the far edge of the small glade. If there was some part of her that had truly considered moving aside, it was quiet now. Rivenwood belonged to her, alongside Heda and the children. And four of those were hers too.

Druid’s eyes lingered on the den’s mouth, waiting for and willing @Kikimora, @Goldfinch, @Artio and @Averie to come outside and eat breakfast with her. She wouldn’t begrudge @Ezra or @Gideon—or the younger boys’ mother—either, of course.

The birds were what woke him, their sweet songs signaling the arrival of something, or someone; he wasn’t sure. His first instinct was to check on his sisters and the brother-cousins, his Aunt next, and then his mother—who seemed to be missing from their den. He was not one to panic, but it did set him on edge that one of his family, the most vital one, was not among them.

He unpacked his rotund body from the pile, sniffing them all on the way through to keep a tally on them, but his mind was more interested in what made the songbirds call out so early in the morning.

His eyes—having started out blue at birth, had begun their change, both lightening and changing a bit differently from the other—blinked rapidly as he emerged from the den mouth, adjusting to the change in lighting. As they cleared, his gaze found his Mama, in the farthest reach of the glade, waiting. 

His little tail wagged fervently, seeming to propel himself toward her. Though he was as round as a fat groundhog prepping for winter, he could move, and he sure did, skidding to a stop before Druid. His little muzzle reached out to boop hers, giving a little lick to the tip of it before pulling back with a smile.

“G’mornin’, Mama! I’s hungry.” As he said so, his belly grumbled—loudly.

Her son emerged, trundling toward her. Druid smiled as he made his way over, leaning down only a little to place a lick to the bridge of his muzzle. He had her eyes, though he would surely take after his father in size. How much longer before she was the smaller of the two?

Good morning to you, Artio. I brought that, she told him, nodding toward the beaver carcass a few yards away, but you have to share it with your brothers and sisters.

Not long, she answered herself, noting Artio’s hearty appetite. He could probably eat the entire beaver on his own. At some point, Druid would stop interfering, though she thought of the littler puppies as she stepped up to keep an eye on Artio’s portions.

His lips squished into a pout at the thought of sharing the scrumptious beaver meat, his belly continuing its rumbling. When Druid mentioned his siblings, however, his thoughts turned to his sisters and cousins and the pout turned into something a little more serious; they needed this more than he did. So, he nodded curtly, ever the protector and keeper of his family. 

“O-tay, Mama, I shares. They is wittler, huh? I. Am. BIG.” His voice rose at the end, half a roar and growl. Picture a baby gorilla beating its chest and you have Artio. Despite his size, he was a gentle giant, extra careful with his siblings—the smallest of them, especially—and his cousins were no exception.

She regarded him with an amused expression, her tail twitching. He was big for his age, thanks to Glaukos’s genes. Druid tried not to dwell on what that might mean in regards to his disposition. He was protective, though rather than throw his weight around like his dad, he was quite the gentle giant.

I love that you look out for the littler ones, the Den Mother acknowledged, reaching out to ruffle the sprout of fur atop her son’s head. You are a big boy. In fact, I think you’re old enough to call me Druid, seeing as that’s my name.

She nipped at his whiskers, wondering if he would take her up on it. If the kids insisted on calling her “mama,” she wouldn’t fight it. But she would continue gently encouraging the use of her preferred name. She hoped it would cultivate a sense of maturity in her children. If she refused to talk to them like they were babies, they would soon be articulate, or so she hoped.

His chest swelled at his mother’s acknowledgement; his family were his pride and joy and they deserved all the love and care he could give them. He giggled as she ruffled his head, but her next words had him confused, his ears folding as he eyed her with confused sadness.

“You not my Mama no more?” He did not like that; he wanted very much for her to be his mother. It felt world ending to call her anything but, and little tears formed as his lip started to wobble. Why she wanted him to call her Druid made him nervous, confused. Did she not want him anymore? Her playful nip had gone unnoticed as his mind worked.

He wouldn’t understand this request from her for a while, yet. Because she asked it of him now, he relented, unable to deny his mother. It came out clumsily as his emotions bubbled underneath. “Dwooid. Dwooid, not Mama.”

Of course I’m still your mama, Druid assured, chucking a fisted paw gently against Artio’s cheek. ‘Mama’ is more of a title, while Druid is my name. I like it best when everyone calls me by it, that’s all. I’ll answer to both, just like you might answer to Artio… and Arty? Or maybe Art?

There was a teasing glint in her eye, wondering what he might think of the nicknames. He seemed a little hung up on her request still and the Den Mother smiled patiently, determined to balance the fine line between coddling and reassurance.

You can call me either one, she repeated, slipping a foreleg around his shoulders, Druid’s just my favorite, that’s all.

Title. Name. The difference still unclear, because they both felt like names to him, but seeing as Druid was her favorite of the two, he would call her that. “Otay, Dwooid Mama.” He giggled at his own attempt at humor, his belly bouncing.

In the quiet moments, when all were asleep in their den, he would practice it, chanting it over and over until he mastered the name.

His mother reassured him that, regardless of either, she was still his mama and that was a comfort in itself. Another giggle left him at her silly nicknames. He couldn’t help but join in. “Arty-farty! Hmm..no Arty.” He shook his head, not liking the nicknames. His face screwed up as he thought of an alternative.

She arched an eyebrow at his preposterous suggestion, then snorted. Artio quickly discarded it, his thoughtful expression leading Druid to believe he was now trying to come up with a better alternative.

What about Tio? Although your nickname doesn’t have to sound like your given name. It could be a title… or a word that describes you somehow. We could call you Potato, for instance, she quipped, poking affectionately at one of his rolls of puppy fat. Or if you want something a little more dignified, maybe…

Druid’s voice trailed off momentarily as she thought on what pet names might suit her son. Her eyes flicked over the beaver—he hadn’t touched it yet, her talk of names distracting the boy from his breakfast—before drifting absently around the trees which circled them. She thought of a legend she’d once heard from another nomad during her years of traveling.

We could call you Paul Bunyan, after the folk hero. He was supposedly a giant wolf who went around using his great size and strength to help everyone. He was big enough to knock down trees and build dens with them.