Deepwood Weald over men’s noses as they lie asleep

Finally, she comes across the girl she seeks. Nyx, Megara greets, meeting the Consort halfway. Mephala be with you this evening. How are you? Her eyes drift across the slender arch of the younger woman's ribs, then back to her face, a silent query. Slender now, perhaps, but with time—and good fortune—she will swell with pups. Yes?

The old rogue settles back on her haunches with a small sigh, waiting for the other's response. The moonlight ripples over her raven's-wing pelt, turning it almost blue in the lunar glow; the scars that criss-cross in various places are a stark silver in contrast.

If Nyx envies her color and gaze, Megara envies the girl's youth. Ah, to be young and (relatively) unblemished again. . .