the sorting hat

The woman listened to her mate, an ear flicking. Scare them? They had only been playing. "Weak," she judged, her head lifted high as she glanced to him to see if he echoed his sentiments. But when he spoke next, she snarled—the cubs would perhaps think that someone within agreed, but it was just the opposite. When he clarified he was joking, she relaxed, but eyed him speculatively. They were having cubs, after all, and if he was keen on eating children Tonravik would never let him near their cubs until they were older and able to fend for themselves fairly. If the cubs were sickly or broken, she would be for putting them out of their misery. But the one thing she did understand was that children took practice. They needed to become strong. If by their first year they were weak, they had their fair chance; it was only a matter of time before they passed.

And if natural events took them, she could even understand that.

But eating cubs?

The hormonal beast in her reared its head. He had clarified, and she checked herself.

"I do not understand the joke," she admitted to him, ears perked. In any case, it did not matter; it had been a joke, he said he would never truly do it, and he had never given her cause to mistrust him before. She moved to nudge his shoulder with her scarred muzzle.