Dragoncrest Cliffs having dinner in the candlelight

at the sight of maman sobeille stiffened, adopting an air of stoicism that mireille would see as facade. still — sobeille was no longer a baby, and so, did not wish her maman to fret. no shellfish, maman. she murmured dutifully, sinking into the soft skins that housed her bed. as maman measured her respiratory rate, sobeille skulked. a day or two, mebbe.

a cold nose at her rear had her aiming a sluggish, hyaenid bite lucette’s way, though the movement was made listless and slow. ’ey! you can be pokin’ an’ proddin’ me when i be ded. not before.