Ravensblood Forest of dancers and dreamers

Kitsch was much too preoccupied with her own anguish to even notice the complicated dynamic of the wolves she faced. Kitsch did see a flash of anger cross the face of the man and the meekness of the woman — but she simply did not care. Kitsch was the one that was starving and Kitsch was the one who had called them here… It was frustrating to the fallen princess that not all their attention was paid to her. So when silence fell over the expectant mother and the shrouded man [who was clearly the superior] began to explain to rules of his kingdom, the young pearl was pleased.

The rules all sounded fair, and similar to the laws her own subjects had complied to back at home — though it was truly strange to see the process from the other side. Then the king asked after her skills and trades; a question that any other wolf might have been prepared to answer, but had not crossed Kitsch’s mind until that very moment. “Oh, well, I — uh,” she stammered,  then huffed and knitted her burnt brows together in deep thought. Did playing and running count as a skill? Because up until now, that’s all she ever had to do: live an easy childhood amongst her friends at court. She had close to zero marketable skills, which she knew wouldn’t make Teaghlaigh’s King very happy — but Kitsch didn’t panic. No, Kitsch was much to blasé to panic in the face of such uncertainty. 

Kitsch's light blue gaze fell upon the rounding of the woman’s stomach, smelt the pregnancy hormones on the air, and immediately knew her way in. “I’m good with pups,” she blurted out, lively gaze jumping from Olive’s gentle baby bump to the smoky brute. Surely they would not turn away the extra help. “I used to babysit in my old pack all the time.” The fabrication slipped off her tongue quite easily — in fact, Kitsch convinced herself of it almost immediately. She had never done babysat before, but how hard could it really be? They would never know.