Redhawk Caldera Who needs vanilla when you have me.

Hotah huffed a laugh through his nose, the sound deep and easy as his tail gave a single lazy sway. Old man, huh? he echoed, dropping onto his haunches beside her. If I’m the old man, that makes you the village matriarch. Crust and all.
He shot her a sidelong grin, one brow arched. Though I’d watch your mouth before I start bringing back actual crust for dinner. Dried moss, tree bark—whatever I can scrape off the rocks. Very rustic.
For a beat, his teasing softened into something quieter. His gaze lingered on her belly again—less with concern, more with the easy steadiness of someone who knew exactly what was coming and wasn’t about to fuss. They’ll be strong, he said, voice low, assured. With you feeding them and me fetching every half-dead thing that crosses our borders, how could they not?
Then, with a smirk returning to his muzzle, he rose to his feet and stretched, long and loose. All right, all right, he sighed, glancing down at her with mock reluctance. Your royal highness wants steak, piglet, and marmot. I’ll see what I can drag back before you start chewing bark yourself.
He took a few steps backward, his grin widening. Try not to scare off every hunter in the caldera while I’m gone, hm?
And with that, Hotah turned, trotting off down the slope with the easy confidence of a man who’d do it all again just to hear her complain.