Heron Lake Plateau [m] your hands can heal, your hands can bruise

He didn't do anything except scurry around her like a panicked chicken; not a headless chicken thank god, but one of those epic looking all-black metal-as-fuck roosters; he circled her and circled her, and as much as Camilla wished his dance could magically stop her from feeling like she was combusting, she was mostly distracted from the display of paternal panic.

GET RAVEN! She hollered in his face — just as he was orbiting around her for another pass — OR TOWHEE, OR -- QUIXOTE, her voice was getting more shrill and desperate, and she even tried to lunge away from him, but staggered and hit the dirt roughly, gasping. Her abdomen spasmed, and she squeezed her eyes shut as a contraction forced its way through her body.

She kicked the dirt and grit her teeth, but within moments of the start of the contraction it ceased. When she lifted off the ground on her shaking limbs, there was a slick mound of something in the dirt, wrapped in a nebulous sack and coated in blood, like some kind of fleshy egg — which she nearly stepped on — and when Camilla spun to fix Phox with a desperate glare, she saw it and felt herself sway, as if about to faint. Oh, she was a mother alright - but whatever that thing was, it wasn't alive.