Blackfeather Woods From even the greatest of horrors irony is seldom absent

Her clear voice rang out from the depths of the den, prompting the Morta to drop his head and seize the toad in his jaws once more. He crept awkwardly into the den on his belly, unwilling to impose more than he had to. The sweet scent of milk hit him first, followed by the warm, comforting smells and sounds of bodies. Ramsay didn't consider himself very sentimental, but he couldn't help the small smile that formed when his eyes adjusted and he spotted the small squirming bundles.

For you, he said, nudging the toad forward in the dim light. Are you all well?