Broken Antler Fen Michael is preparing for the birth of a watermelon with Dwight.

roswell slept in. after days of rising with the sun to walk patrols — confidence bolstered by the fact that he believes he's done well so far with two intercepting of strangers at the borders beneath his belt — the tiredness seeps heavy into his bones and he does not fight it. though the attempt to rouse himself to go on a morning patrol was there, he gave into the desire to catch a few extra z's.

when he does finally wake he feels groggy but refreshed. he takes his time stretching and when he emerges from the family den, he gives his pelage — growing heavier and courser in preparation for the coming winter months — a shake to dispel any lingering debris. a large yawn splits his face and he blinks groggily a few times before his champagne golden gaze falls upon the woman lingering nearby, weeding out a food cache as he begins to head towards the borders.

uh, hi. he broaches, curiosity. you need help? he inquires, though admittedly sorting out rotten meat does not sound appealing.