Hushed Willows In a long black veil she cries over my bones.

Food had grown more and more difficult for the pack to gather, which put them all in jeopardy; none more so than the young Tambourine though, as his mother struggled to get enough in to her belly so that her milk did not run dry. Octavia had never been a picky eater growing up, and now that the situation was growing dire, she scavenged around the Crook for anything left behind (purposefully or not) so that her son would not go hungry.

The cave was immaculate because of this. There were no bugs to be seen littering the ground, not one speck — and any discarded waste such as gristle or old bone that was tough to work through, she would knaw at until the object became palatable. Octavia knew it was for the best, even if it tasted poorly or took a lot of her time to work at. Not even bone was safe from her hungry teeth. Even now she was knawing at a sad old bone she'd found lodged in the dark somewhere.

Behind her was perhaps the only thing left. The only thing she would not touch, and often warded the other wolves away from — the putrescent skull of her other boy, the remaining piece that had gone uneaten. Undecided with what to do with it, the skull sat festering in the corner of the whelping den, mixing its scent in with those of the mother and her newborn. As Octavia chewed at the abandoned leg bone she had found, her eyes slip casually towards that discarded remnant in the corner, and she feels her mouth fill with saliva.