Wapun Meadow when i was a younger man, looking for a pot of gold

Whatever uncertainties she’s had towards Stigmata’s claim — both terrain and the basilisks’ own word — tentatively faded beneath the assuredty of Indra’s insight. That Diaspora was capable in itself had been a hunch, brought on by the inkling Aure’d registered when she first traveled down, seeking her brother.

When the time came to part from Drageda, the iron-clad’s residence had been the first she’d sought out; if they’d been turned from the spires, then Easthollow would’ve been her next choice. And if they’d been turned from that... she and Blodreina would’ve certainly given birth without the security  ( and comfort ) of a pack, no matter how small or dwindling it was.

Which brought her attention back to Indra, just in time for her inquiry of little doves. Regardless of all the motherly mistakes she’d mafe — she cherished them dearly, dearer than dear could ever wish to be. “Two, actually.” Her balaur and belea; earth-nibbler and ankle-biter. “From ze way they kicked in my womb, though, it felt as if I’d deliver ten.”

Lips thinned to keep a trill of laughter suppressed, and when she looked towards the spires, some of the old gleam in her eyes seemed reinvigorated. “My first litter, too.” Some of the mirth, before that domestic stumble. “If it isn’t too invasive... do you have children, of your own?”