Bearclaw Valley till so many decades had passed

it's that man again. he brings them unmoving things, and Astara eats them. lately, she's been sharing the meat with them as well, albeit in regurgitated form—a delightful contrast to the sweetness of milk. Avicus is being weaned, and she doesn't even know it.

one day, maybe, she will wake and mourn the loss of her mother's teat.

but she strays from it now, standing within the shadowed den entrance, staring at him. she is growing rapidly; her ears stand aloft, her legs have lengthened, and her pup-fuzz is sleeker now, gained a russet sheen. her eyes are still blue, though darker, and still as cold and impassive as the day they opened.

Avicus waits for him to make the first move. he has never shown much proclivity to spend time with her, and she's not had the ability to seek him out. now, however—with her growing independence—the chasm between them narrows.