Golden Glade brush strokes on a canvas of souls

To say that Phoebe hadn't grown curious with the absence of her mother would have been a lie. She was very curious but not bold enough to draw herself into investigation. It was an unspoken sense that told her to stay away, lest she wanted to be snarled at or snapped after, even if that wasn't necessarily what would happen. But she wasn't too young to not understand that her mother's time was close, and that soon their family would expand to let new souls join.

She knew that time had come when her father beckoned them, and like every good little child, she was sure to obey. There was no particular urgency that drove her, in fact she had hoped by taking her time she would not be the first there. The walk would give her time to sort her thoughts, or at the very least try and scratch off the mixed emotions that arose within her again. Everything seemed to happen much too fast, from the initial surprise that their family was growing, to the move and the unfamiliar faces that led alongside her parents, and now this.

But alas, when she did come up on the whelping den she found only her father waiting. Not Owen already there making a clamor, or Vasa curiously prying for information. Just her, much to the dread that sank in her belly, sacrificed to an unseen pit. Uncertainty built to cover that dread as she left the greenery behind to greet her father; she didn't know what to do here, or whether things were good or bad. Quixote's expression seemed to suggest he was pleased, but...

A tiny squeak from within was very telling, and distracting.

She glanced back to him questioningly, but found words would not come.