Bearclaw Valley not everyone gets to die and that's just how it will be

she heard the call. of course she did. her head was always halfway out the hovel, awaiting for the bruin-jaw and bruin-heart to come, voice their verdict for her unborn children.

now they never would.

the wrinkles of her face turned deeper, her anger so potent it made her tremble. 

months and months, wasted as if time was air. and what had she learned? nothing. the manners of wolves, and not much more. was the bear even a true god, or merely an excuse for savageness?

bernadette bent her head and growled, deep sound rising from deep within her like an earthquake. then, a sharp pain in her abdomen cut it into a whine.

no, no anger now. she was swollen with life unborn, and she could tell from experience they would be out soon. her wolf-blooded offspring, finally an uniqueness produced of her own womb.

the beardog retreated into the darkness of her den, curled up within a corner stuffed with dried herbs and crude bonetotems. she would not leave. the wolves can come drag her out by the scruff of her neck if they so pleased, but she would not go of her own will.

their bear can smite her if she'd been too heathenous for its tastes - but she would stay, as the least she deserved was a set of living children, born into the darkness of the earth as their wolven nature demanded.

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