Bearclaw Valley They grow into adults, and become dangerous things

it was the water the blackbird's son chose. astara trailed after his confident gait, amused by the way it seemed to buoy every step. when she slid into the water she ignored the icy brace, feeling a chill ripple down her pelt.

turning, astara received a faceful of splashed water. she shook the droplets from her pelt and eyed her son -- her cheeky, beautiful little son.

her muzzle dipped below the water, only the amethyst of her gaze peering above the surface. bubbles frothed and foamed where her nostrils were; she circled aventus carefully, making her approach in the languid manner of a crocodile.