Moonspear these are the lessons in love

Atlas was dozing when Hydra left. He wasn't all that surprised to wake up and see aunt Lyra in her place, watching over them as she has since their birth. Or that's what it seems like. He cannot summon a memory where his aunts were not nearby. Their lives and idiosyncrasies are so entwined with Hydra's, he often questions if they have any individual cares of their own. A very curt and rude question to ask, that. Oops. Turns out some topics should not be voiced at all.

It does not bother him all that much.

Just kidding.

He sits away from the group and sulks.

It is then their mother comes strolling languidly onto the scene, two newfangled critters swaying from her mouth. Atlas follows in his sister's steps, more than ready to be done pouting by this point. He omits the jaw spar in lieu of the lifeless bodies she's brought back, clearly enraptured. Approaching the animals, he carefully runs his nose along the fox, sniffing and inspecting in equal measure. The small fox has ruddy fur, it's tail tipped in a painterly white blot. The larger coyote — which looked more canine than the fox — would have blended seamlessly with brushy grasses. Outside of those assessments, Atlas comes back to his sister's side, taking after her and looking expectantly at Hydra. What did she have planned for her brood?