Bearclaw Valley her perfume crucified me with memories

mother and child both were departing the small den-mouth when a shadow crossed it; indra's ear flicked back as a nip pinched her elbow, yet her attention was fastened on the predator that lurked outside. her heart had fretfully skipped a beat at first, to think they were endangered -- but as the sun lifted out from the canopy, stigmata's presence was revealed.

she cast her gaze to the offering flung not far from their stony keep - a tattered weasel, freshly dispatched. before the weasel stood the proud man, muzzle bloodied by his conquest -- it was then she caught merrick's form pressed against her, shivering from some moral high ground only toddlers seemed to occupy. drawing her limbs underneath her, indra primly sat and regarded stigmata, and his gracious offering.

but what -- or who -- was stigmata? besides the pizza delivery boy (a title that somehow, indra imagined the male would resent). a packmate, perhaps, but that deportment in itself was a complex concept for a child young as merrick. "that is mommy's friend, stigmata." indra decided to answer, nudging the boy affectionately before dipping her head in gratitude: "and he brought lunch -- can you say 'thank you', merrick?" oh boy - indra should have known better than to issue such a statement, which also often translated in toddler-speech to "can you show everyone how defiant of a little hellchild you can be, and embarrass mommy in the best way you know how?"