Cricket Creek Bog Searching

Just a fat little cult wolf, looking for a new friend.

Her belly was large now. The children within her kicked and rolled, lifting her skin and pinging off her ribs. It was occasionally uncomfortable, but overall wholly enjoyable. Pregnancy had, despite the terrible morning sickness that had plagued her for the majority of the weeks past, been a thing she treasured. And now she was restless, sure that her children would come soon. She had prepared her den, scraping out the dirt with careful paws to make it larger. She had packed it with moss from the very bog she sat near now, as well as tufts of her own fur. Overall she was pleased. The den was warm, the winter chill could be kept out.

Yet, she was restless. So she found herself on the edge of the border of the Sun Mote and Cricket Creek. She could not travel far now, too large was she to risk it. Here on the borders she felt safe though, Molech would watch her and her pack was only a call away. She wanted to hear the crickets sing for a last time before the winter came, and as the sun slowly began to dip the insects began to sing.

Perhaps Molech would deign to send company her way. Perhaps there was a lonely soul out here that she had been sent to help, admist the music of the dying crickets.