the wraith has come to rest in a gently sloping hollow, tongue lolling and sides heaving. all those instincts of motherhood have been ignored; she has not made any effort to nest, and now that the restlessness begins to increase, the woman grounds herself, steeling and revolting against instinct. pain wraps around her crown, her sides, and low, fevered growls cascade from her maw onto the wet earth.
something calls through the wood, low and grating. it jolts the wraith from a stupor she did not know she'd entered, arching in on herself. blood on the earth, blood on her thighs; reaching, she grabs hold of something. the first. @Conquest is a swift remembrance of her hate, and though instinct is a firm guiding hand, her hate has always overwhelmed. another growl as the pain continues, seizing the bundle tightly and for a moment, swinging it from her jaws as she could prey. but the violence of the action is softened by that omnipresent instinct, and so she drops the bundle onto the earth, cleaning in roughly and without compassion. killing them, vanishing, had crossed her mind more than once, but she did not know herself capable, and had no doubts the pack would seek to punish her.
there comes a second - no, a third. there is a second there already, in the dirt. this one is seized and dropped before her for prodding inspection, the first ignored now. this one, @Pestilenece, underwhelms. small, pale, wrong. again, cleaned roughly. the metallic taste of blood brings her pause. hers — the inside of her maw is raw and bitten — or the childs? the third is born. pestilence is pushed towards her sibling; @Famine has the unfortunate luck to roll close toward the woman's hind as she shifts. a kick sends him rolling. and then, before she can move to inspect the third; a shadow from betwixt her thighs. this one is within reach; he is pulled toward her and given the same treatment as the first two. but there is something wrong, off. this one does not stir. @Death casts a shadow over this one, and so she moves to retrieve the third.
the birth sac is removed just as efficiently as it had been from the others, the rotund one placed at her chest. three — no, four. the ink-stained had found a teat; silently had it, with no help from her, begun to breathe. brow furrows, but the wraith accepts this. something else slides from her womb; but it is no living thing and so is disposed of just as quickly. tongue slides over her lips, the pain beginning finally to ebb. it is done.
something calls through the wood, low and grating. it jolts the wraith from a stupor she did not know she'd entered, arching in on herself. blood on the earth, blood on her thighs; reaching, she grabs hold of something. the first. @Conquest is a swift remembrance of her hate, and though instinct is a firm guiding hand, her hate has always overwhelmed. another growl as the pain continues, seizing the bundle tightly and for a moment, swinging it from her jaws as she could prey. but the violence of the action is softened by that omnipresent instinct, and so she drops the bundle onto the earth, cleaning in roughly and without compassion. killing them, vanishing, had crossed her mind more than once, but she did not know herself capable, and had no doubts the pack would seek to punish her.
there comes a second - no, a third. there is a second there already, in the dirt. this one is seized and dropped before her for prodding inspection, the first ignored now. this one, @Pestilenece, underwhelms. small, pale, wrong. again, cleaned roughly. the metallic taste of blood brings her pause. hers — the inside of her maw is raw and bitten — or the childs? the third is born. pestilence is pushed towards her sibling; @Famine has the unfortunate luck to roll close toward the woman's hind as she shifts. a kick sends him rolling. and then, before she can move to inspect the third; a shadow from betwixt her thighs. this one is within reach; he is pulled toward her and given the same treatment as the first two. but there is something wrong, off. this one does not stir. @Death casts a shadow over this one, and so she moves to retrieve the third.
the birth sac is removed just as efficiently as it had been from the others, the rotund one placed at her chest. three — no, four. the ink-stained had found a teat; silently had it, with no help from her, begun to breathe. brow furrows, but the wraith accepts this. something else slides from her womb; but it is no living thing and so is disposed of just as quickly. tongue slides over her lips, the pain beginning finally to ebb. it is done.
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