Ravensblood Forest No more alone or myself could I be

Timberrrrr!

With Lia’s added strength the tree adds sporadic cracks to its reluctant groans, and Lotte, taking heart at the appreciable progress they’ve made, rears back like a wild stallion and thrusts herself forward with forelegs stiffened. A snarl of effort contorts her mud-spattered face, and as the tree roots begin to snap and the trunk starts to lift into the air like the bow of a sinking ship, she levers herself onto the trunk and begins walking up the tree to push the weight of her body against it. Lotte is a large wolf, made larger by the children in her womb, and the further she walks up the sap-dappled trunk, the closer it seems to get to the ground. It never occurs to her that maybe she shouldn’t do things like this while she is pregnant — she is a spirited wolf like her mother, who never listened to Aksel when he cautioned her to take things easy.

Still, when she rides the tree like a wave to the ground with a thump and a swish and a crack, Lotte is winded. A cramp pulls at her lower abdomen and she is forced to sit down abruptly, looking up at the Raurc with an expression of mingled discomfort and triumph. “I thank you for your aid, Lia,” she says blithely, her tail swaying cheerily behind her. “In my home, when a large enemy was vanquished, we would sing and feed and tell stories.” Her warm, rich alto is mildly wistful. “Are you hungry?” she questions brightly. It goes without saying that she is. All the time. Insatiably so. “We could pull meat from the cache and eat it by the river, and wash off all the mud and sap.” She glances at their handiwork, small, thickly-furred ears perking atop her crown as she realizes that they have unintentionally accomplished her original goal: beneath the fallen tree, a hollow has opened, formed by the angle the trunk stands at and the excavation that caused such ruin. Beaming, Lotte rears up on her hind legs to test its resilience before being forced back down to a sitting position as another, stronger cramp tugs at her. Someone [@Roarke] is tap dancing on her spleen, while another someone is using her bladder as a trampoline [@Mallaidh].

“Will you test your weight against it?” she asks, breathing between her teeth, buying herself time. “Perhaps it can still be used as a den if the tree will hold. Then we can go and eat.”