Bearclaw Valley the conqueror worm

after a moment's contemplation, she dips her head down and approaches, pressing her nose against the goo. hmmm. . . it's not an altogether unpleasant smell, but it is different. it smells like the dirt in the den, but sharper. a quality she cannot yet define. Avicus then sticks her tongue out, giving the creature a lick.

even more curious! again, not unpleasant. not the sweetness of milk, for sure. she is half-tempted to meander back to her mother's teat, to suckle and clear the taste. something reckless and masochist within her is demanding another try, though, and she's bending low again—

!!!!

she looks slightly upward as she licks, and she spots the being a short distance outside the den. it looks like Astara, except lighter, less like darkness. Avicus crouches low, fur bristling, a russet bottle-brush babe. her blue eyes are unsettlingly round, stare gimlet; the faintest approximation of a growl rumbles in her tiny throat, a subterranean sound audible only to those by her side,

and the only one by her side is the writhing creature, except it writhes no longer, and it tastes of deep, damp earth.