Blackfeather Woods for who would bear the whips and scorns of time

she's chosen the glen to make her den. not because she wants to, but because she feels poorly about coming to the wood only in her time of need and will not sequester herself to some corner and vanish from the eyes of the pack as she so desires. she owes them, now, her respect for Maegi and her siblings allow no other interpretation. it is a vow she'll bear easily enough, though wishes time had allowed for her to prove her word in some way.

the afternoon is hot and humid and overbearing, and she is driven to the glen by the sharp pains that begin to dig their keen talons into her sides. she wavers by the pool, maw agape and panting, and for the first time in a long while she feels something akin to fear. the mouth of the den yawns, almost invitingly, but she can still taste the stone and stale on her tongue and see the pups with the life so quickly torn from them. the echoes of the restlessness that had driven her all day nip at her still, but instead she sinks to the earth beside the pool, ears drawn tight to her crown. 

the woman exhales through gritted teeth, and then there is a haze of hurt and pressure and a bundle she draws towards herself. she feels almost detached from the situation, as if the maternal instincts that drive her to clean and draw close the bundle that will one day be called @Scylla are not her own. There is little time to ground herself, for this is only the first, and growl slips her throat as pain ripples down her sides once more. the stone escarpments all around give way to trees and then a darkening cloudbank, promising a drizzle that will, at some point or another, force the woman inside. not now, not yet.