Dragoncrest Cliffs Freshet

Svalinn abandoned his hunt immediately, running full tilt across the clifflands at Chacal’s alarm call.

It was time!

He had been frustrated to not convince her to labor in the warm confines of her den, believing the tradition of seawater-births to be entirely unsafe, but he could feel nothing but subsisting pride as he found her and their firstborn daughter upon the beaten shore.

Chéri was magnificent. A perfectly blonde angel. He could hardly look away from her. He paced, whining softly as Chacal tensed in pain and pushed out another daughter. A paler girl than the first, but another blonde of silvery sand and just as entrancing: their beloved Roux. The next contractions produced their first and only son, and Svalinn felt a glissade of worry at the sight of him, until realizing that it was just his coloration and not some malformation of an exposed skull – what an odd pelt, Jean-Heron! This one was healthy, too, as told by his loudest cries. Last to come was the treasured Èlosie, a smudge of ash among a rank of gold and cotton siblings. Irrevocably beautiful, she added a new color shade to his heart.

And if all his favoring over the pregnant Tanzanite had not been clue enough, then everyone would know him as father now. He caressed the beleaguered mother and kissed her pained brow. You’re amazing. They’re perfect, he whispered.

He came to encircle their salt-sprayed children, minimizing the wind exposure after their baptism. He felt loathe to let anyone near at this time, though would begrudgingly allow the more comforting presences of Mireille and Valravn, if only to celebrate this moment with them also.