Deepwood Weald Ahead by a Century

She panted softly as she waited for the next round of pain to come. Dutch howled, assured her- and she remained on edge in spite of it all. She licked her lips anxiously, tufted ears turned back. Whale-eyed, she tried to remain positive. 

To her husband she spoke between a series of short puffs of breath. ”No, love- it will be;” her breath caught as she felt a twinge. It was one of the children moving, not another contraction. ”I have seen my sisters through labour before but they never said it hurt so-“ her words were cut off by another contraction. She held her breath and crouched through it. When the pain lessened, she began breathing again, and began pacing.

And so it continued for some time- she paced and panted, pausing when a contraction stopped her in her tracks, and she began to notice that the breaks in between were getting shorter. 

Just in time, a woman arrived; one who smelled of children, of Moontide. Simbelmyne’s lower back ached; her pelvis felt as if all the weight of her midsection pushed against it. ”It does not feel very natural to meeeeeee!” Came her reply, lightly sarcastic, and pinched by the onset of yet another contraction. ”How much more of this?” She asked when the pain had subsided.