Sawtooth Spire I was drunk, said I was sober, and you said yeah right

At first, Wylla's summons had brought the weight of dread to settle in the pit of her belly. The tawny Ostrega, reluctant still even after all the time since her a ghost of her past arrived to Diaspora, considered pretending that she did not hear her call. She remained put at the mouth of her densite and did just that, setting about preening the coarse furs of a shoulder - but attempt to shift her focus elsewhere failed miserably, as it always seemed to.

She hated her, she knew, and rightly so. Nyx had carried Wylla's brother's offspring without her approval, earning a lifetime of scorn that, although deserved, would forever rouse a cold fear within her. The coastal she-wolf did not know of those pups' grim fate, thankfully, but the bitterness for such blatant disrespect remained, and that was enough.

There came a flutter in Nyx' abdomen, the first real stirring of new life that grew within a womb she'd once thought cursed. A gentle reminder, perhaps an urging, to respond to the Alphess' request for the pack to rally so that she might look upon the children she reared. Children that would be siblings of her own.

Tentatively, she went, and was glad that others had come before she could. Nyx lingered on the outskirts, wary of Wylla's sharp glare and not daring to even think to shift closer, though her yellow eyes looked curiously for the infants who emerged from her burrow for the first time.