Sawtooth Spire wrong side of the tracks

Her agitation was high. Still, as she noted the second-born following her trail, the mother picked him up and again deposited him with his brothers who were still. It was then she heard the approach of her mate and turned to meet him, keeping inside. She lay on her belly and kept the crawlspace out and in blocked, lobes swiveling and perking forward. She could not see him so well, but could hear him perfectly. Tonravik rumbled.

"Someone has brought me food, dropped it too far," she supplied, blaming none presently, nor telling of her intuitive thought because it mattered not—the culprit would reveal themselves, one way or another, and food was food. And on that, food could come close, but as for company... no. Not until they were a month old. Fathers, whether they intended to or not, were unpredictable around young. The mother was thoughtful. Perhaps it was an honest mistake of measuring distance.

So she explained, thinking it prudent. "The wild watches. There may be coyotes, wolverines, and other threats that wait for these brief opportunities," she looked at him, licking her chops: "I do not intend to give them a chance." It was this inherent instinct that kept her rooted and so protective over them. Her pack mates, too, might desire to see them... but to see them would mean they were too close, and if one got too close they were as good as dead. She could only imagine they would come too close for ill-intent, even if everything else said otherwise. Tonravik trusted no one around these babes yet; her instinct told her not to. The mother was feral.

And they were new to this wild. She did not want those animals to test them with lives that could not fend for their own. Too late was a prospect she did not desire to meet.