Blackfeather Woods dreamers

She twitches into clearness, the fog from her mind disappaiting from the sound of Charon's voice. It startled her, both the suddenness of it and the realization of who it was. She lingers for a moment, unsure whether to move and greet him or hide away. Both had consequences that she was unwilling to face, but she does not want to risk Charon's life. If he spends too long alone at the border, with no one to vouch for him, what would become of him in the end?

Potema moves, tearing herself away from @Kjalarr's embrace, no doubt waking him up as she pulls away, staggering out into the cold snow-covered landscape. Her strength had slowly returned, the worst of her withdrawal ebbing away. It had been a painful few weeks (perhaps a moon or more now) without the bliss of the poppy, and it had showed in her body, decisated and gaunt. But she moved towards the border with a confidence that she had only reserved for searching for the blessed red flowers, now directed towards something else, something much more meaningful. The mere thought of the flower and its seeds were enough to make her salivate, though.

She had hoped to be the first to see Charon at the border, and thus hurry him along with little fuss between him and her packmates. Her hope was quickly dashed and overcome by worry as she say the small mottled pelt lurking in the grass. Leave, She hissed to the small boy. Of them all, she had hated him the most. Not because of his deformities, not because he lacked them either, but because he looked so eerily like his father, his uncle — save for one Melonii-indigo eye in place of Cicero's bright orange. She did not want Charon to see him, or to see Cicero.

Potema glared at her son — she nearly gagged again — until he skittered away, out of her sight (whether he was completely out of earshot was the least of her worries, so little did she think of her latest litter). She looked up to Charon, hoping to have some sense of control over her appearance (she doubts it). What brings you here?