Hushed Willows The keeper of this host

She bowed to him. Slid her chin carefully across his plump little self, nesting him close while he tried so hard to burrow against her breast. A small sigh caught between her teeth then spread, forcing her to breathe deeply of the stonework and the dust, and her son's sweet aroma. Eventually he would smell like the willows, and like Warbone. Octavia thought suddenly, would he one day call Arkham 'father'? And truthfully, the mother did not know what to feel about that. It was not the worst idea. He was capable, strong, and seemed to be somewhat devoted to her - for whatever reason. As she exhaled, Octavia's deep breath became a yawn, and the sound of it murmured through the cave.

She sank down and stretched out, feeling her ankles crack and her leg muscles strain briefly; there was a strangeness to her belly too. It wasn't heavy like before, which made sense. There was no movement from the unborn children. The famine had yet to truly sap Octavia of anything. With a shift of one forelimb she propelled her little bundle of joy away from her chest and towards the base of her ribs, then seemed to think better of it, and used the alternate limb to catch Tambourine. She lifted her head and watched him.

Little boy, what are we going to do? The woman half-hummed. Then, she got an idea, and sullenly asked him, Can you talk yet? Hmm? Can you say Reek? Reeeee-k.