Luneshale Pass you keep sayin' that i'm nothing like my father

fiamma would not bear children this year.

or, at least, she assumed not. nothing had changed—no quickening in her womb, nor desperate appetite. all was sadly normal, and thus, life went on.

with no litters to look forward to, she instead turned her attention to a different kind of sprout. literal sprouts, at that. she stood over the seedling she'd noticed on her quest with soto, steadily growing. brought her muzzle close; perhaps her warm breath would stir it further.

others, too, would emerge soon. but this one was hers, and fiamma crouched beside it like a mother on watch. sheltering it, shielding it. . .

she would appear a madwoman to most souls spotting her from afar.