Wild Berry Meadow the world, the war, will wait, but morpheus knows no mercy

The black-banded Cairn trailed the scrappy little witch doctor through unfamiliar flatlands, keeping his distance should she need ample time and space to deal with the whelp she so coveted. The air was thick and bitter with the small creature’s terror and he had no wish to aggravate it further, so he folded his notched limbs into a sphinx-like position a good distance away from the pair — close enough to see his Chosen One’s satellite dish ears and hear her gentle promise but far enough away that he posed no immediate threat to the tiny sea urchin. He kept his senses trained on the horizon, watching for the approach of his brother or the resurgence of the dark wolf who had sought to claim the cub. Doe’s angry cry replayed itself in his mind: “She is mine — she is the daughter of Riverbone, and I have come to collect her!” It was an odd statement, but Szymon believed it to be a ruse — and a clever one at that. The conviction in her voice had been so raw — so absolute.

Instinctively he understood that the flighty little cub needed quiet and comfort — so instead of offering a guttural chuff of greeting to alert Doe of his presence, Szymon caught the lullaby’s melody and added his low bass timbre to it — just for a measure or two until he returned fully to silence. When Doe was ready to allow him near, she would let him know — and if that moment was days away, she would certainly let him know that as well.