Sawtooth Spire dear god: thanks, if you loved me the vegetables would be extinct

she was sleeping sound against thade when their mother slipped from the den. after ten-or-so days, the queen of thorns was likely going stir-crazy, and ever-doting @Mahler was seldom far from the densite even when she wasn’t taking midday interludes to scream into the void or cool her chafed assets in the brumal waters of windholme.
surely this meant there was no need for dramatics. object impermanence whomst?
when sleeping sound turned into restless stirring and eventual wakefulness, phaedra unshaded herself from the darkside of her brother, exploiting the proximity of his face to push off against it and roll herself away into an inquisitive shamble across the landscape of pelts. 
curse her species and its inability to echolocate. relying on the illterate efforts of her nose wasn’t good enough, for although @Wylla wasn’t there, she’d left an olfactive footprint that phaedra followed to scandal.

gravy train abandonment!

upon discovery of such devious ploys (which was no ploy at all, but a most definite slight against her), the child blatted noisily with a new dislike of being tricked. bloated with self-pity she brushed her face against the scent-laden peltries where their repasts were usually held, whimpering as she gummed on the coyote hide ensnaring dewdrops of hour old milk like she was never again going to be able to indulge in its creamy, lucullan goodness.
she snuffled until every last drop was found. sorry bro, success is for firstcomers, survival of the fattest, fool at forty [seconds late] is a fool forever, etc. 
her stomach was still wealthy from the last feeding, opulent and round, and there was no hunger gnawing at her … but she was bored and being bored meant time to eat, goddamn it.
her whimpering blues turned into an outright, broken-hearted dirge of cries.