Hideaway Strath ceathairéad

@Hemlock to start with, please ♥

Beneath the King Sequoia, Lotte labored.

The trial and its aftermath had left a bitter venom upon the songbird’s errant tongue, and even now, even after the sentence had been determined and the punishment meted out, she recalled the stricken look in Olive’s eyes and the mewling of the mist-shrouded druid’s children. Despite herself — despite her inclination to be fierce and unyielding when it came to Teaghlaigh’s tenets; despite her jealousy; despite the fear that transmuted into fury — Lotte felt sorry for the scarred woman with the eau-de-nil eyes.

“Rakas — !”

Now that all was relatively quiet in the shrouded vale, the fierce drumming of the rogue’s blood seemed even louder. Pain after pain tore through her, enslaving and consuming her — she gave voice to them at last with a low and undulating moan of agony, surrendering utterly to the roil of her tightly stretched sides. They seemed to shudder and roll to a rhythm wholly their own, and the sight simultaneously made her skin crawl and kindled a blossom of hope within her breast. This being her first pregnancy, Lotte could not have known that she had been in the first stage of labor during the trial and was, approximately fifteen hours later, only now reaching its close. Gritting her teeth, she pushed against the roots of the great tree with all four of her legs as another vicious contraction stole her breath away. “Äiskä,” she whined, her argent eyes fluttering closed as she fought off a cramp that made her head spin. This time, though, something was different.

Without any warning, a moderate quantity of fluid dampened the thick fur of her hindquarters, and the ensuing wave of trepidation was enough for her to throw back her head and call desperately for @Hemlock. The quality of her normally melodic alto was cracked and fractured, rife with pain and fear and lacking its normal clarity, as she cried out for aid. Her cubs were as impatient as she was, and they were coming now — a week before they were supposed to have been born. What could that do to such fragile little souls?

Untrained eyes could easily have seen the effects of the past few weeks on Lotte. Their Banrion had suffered more greatly than any of them had and Hemlock had vowed to do all she could to ensure that pain was eased. She did not feel good about the trial or the punishments of the troublemakers. She did not feel good about many things, these days, but for Lotte an unfair pressure what been put on her. She was now the mother of all, of hopes, and dreams, and prosperity when it should have been a far more private affair. The still of the Strath was broken by the call and Hemlock sprung up, grabbing the meager amount of herbs she'd managed to gather. 

She was aware of the sensation of being watched, no doubt Arturo and Chusi both were near but for once she paid them little attention. She slunk into the small nest, giving a whine - even if the Banrion lashed out at her she would care little. "These will help with your pain, dearest."  She said softly as she nosed the raspberry towards Lotte. The borage for her milk could wait, right now, Hemlock wanted to be the brace for her Queen and ensure the promises that she had made. "Tonight you do as millions have before you, and all their strength and energy will be yours."  She tried to soothe the fears as best as she could, ignoring the other sensations prickling in her own skull. Her tongue washed briefly over Lotte's face, hoping she could calm her however possible. She wouldn't fear, not then, not when she was about to play witness to something so beautiful. 

Lotte bristled instinctively when Hemlock’s silhouette fell across the mouth of the hollow, kohl-lined lips peeling back to brandish alabaster cutlery as a defensive rumble churned within her breast. Her throaty growl guttered out almost immediately at Hemlock’s beseeching whine, but it took the songbird a moment or two before her black-masked features smoothed out into something more amicable. “Eat them?” she questioned in a tight, strained whisper, proceeding to do exactly that at the healer’s behest. Bearlike ears flattened against the broad dome of Lotte’s crown as Hemlock gently bathed her face.

Abruptly, the desire to push with the contractions overwhelmed the inexperienced female, and she bent her head to rub and scrape the bridge of her muzzle rhythmically against one of the King Sequoia’s roots. Contrary to her loquacious nature, Lotte made no sound as she toiled, shifting her hindquarters and bracing her hips until at last a small, dark sac slipped soundlessly from her. Banríon was a large wolf, but she moved with infinite care as she took it between her paws and delicately broke through the membrane. Anxiously she smoothed her tongue over the infinitesimal little face, but no amount of attention would rouse the stillborn. “Hemlock,” she whimpered, nosing firmly at the tiny, unmoving body and pushing it insistently against her side. “He does not move — he does not breathe — !” She bent her head to the dead Fearghal, feeling an overwhelming sense of failure and panic. “Can we make him well?” she asked, already knowing the answer was no. Hot tears soaked the black velvet of her cheeks and fell upon the slick little body.

Hemlock gave a nod at the request, quiet as she touched her muzzle gently to Lotte's side to feel the intensity of the contractions as they came. "It will be soon," Hemlock lamented, knowing that it would be time to push and there would be sensations new to both of them. Hemlock could not help her through them but she could hope that things would progress as quickly and safely as possible. She gave a soft whine when the first child was born without a breath, once Lotte had drawn it close and saw it Hemlock took extreme care as she nosed its stomach, pressing in gentle quick bursts to see if she could rouse a breath. "It happens frequently even in the most idealistic pregnancies." Hemlock lamented. 

"We will honor this life even with its siblings." Hemlock said softly, watching the Banrion. She kept out of the way, eyes flitting from the form of the dark mother down to the little form of the dark child. If there was a motion, if there was any change, she would have seen it quick. It was possible, but she did not expect it. "Try not to fight the feeling, if you can, when the next wave comes push with it." Hemlock instructed - but nature would pace it quickly, it would do as it would and Hemlock wished she could take that pain for her. 

The passage of time was lost on the parturient Banríon.

True to her nature, Lotte nosed the stillborn toward the mouth of the den; Hemlock’s words heartened and encouraged her, and although a tight knot of anxiety and grief had taken up residence within her heart for his untimely loss, she could not afford to focus on what she could not control. It was some time before another contraction bade her to push, but history repeated itself in the cruelest of ways: this cub, a little female white as freshly fallen snow, was also stillborn. Desperation swelled within the young queen as she fixed Hemlock with a stricken expression, wordlessly nosing the cub toward the midwife for her diagnosis.

The look they shared was not one of joy, but of sorrow, and Hemlock wished that she could reverse the cruel fate of the little snow kissed cub. She tucked the dark cub near her own breast, and it was like a cruel blade to do so. It might have been her children, hers and Palisander's, and the gentle way she touched both pups was as if they were her own. She cleared the nose, pressed against its stomach, she tended to them but nothing she could do would reverse what fate and nature would decree. "In my own litter of four my mother buried three, it is unfair, but it is how nature demands."  Hemlock said quietly as she reached out to nuzzle briefly against the Banrion. "They make the way for their siblings, dear heart, and maybe for their sacrifice it will be easier with the next" she hoped, against all, that it would be - for this eve the fate of the star-crossed young hung just as heavily in the balance. 

I was going to make this a Mallaidh only post but I decided to include the twins so that Tori gets to start playing Roarke. ♥
Warning: Impossible biology ahoy!
Can has healz for Eirlys, please, Sonia?

Overwhelmed by grief and gratitude, Lotte lay her muzzle across one fire-kissed paw and crooned her affection for the viridian-eyed Leifteanant. The sentence Lotte herself had decreed weighed heavily upon her mind as she stared without blinking or moving at the tiny puppies who would never know of their mother’s love. “I spoke in anger and in fear,” she confided so softly that not even a wolf lingering just outside the den could hear, “but I do not want to kill Olive’s children.” Her breath hitched unevenly as she stretched forward and touched her nose to the small, pale blur. “Where I come from, white cubs are carefully watched — I was a white cub. There is a trait in my family; often but not always, white cubs change color as they age. It is useful for subterfuge.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“This one would have looked like his father,” she mentioned, pressing the wet of her nose to her firstborn’s crown. “That brown — I have none of it. His nose — ” her voice broke, but she kept talking anyway “ — it is different, you see? Sharper than hers. He would have been sleek like his isä.”

Pitching her voice to carry now, Lotte teased, “Perhaps our Ceannasach chose a wife like me to keep him warm in winter — or to accentuate his svelte silhouette by comparison.” The mild quip was designed to bolster @Arturo, Hemlock, and @Chusi’s collective mood as much as her own, but before she could follow up with a self-deprecating joke, her lips pulled back in a fierce grimace as a violent tempest of a contraction sent her rocketing abruptly to her paws. Whining softly, Lotte pushed through the pain as her body bade her, and a third cub slipped from her onto the den’s earthen floor. This time when she nipped through the membrane she was punched square in the nose by one tiny, flailing paw. So shocked was she by the living, breathing, punching puppy that she rocked back in startlement. “She is alive,” she said, utterly dazed, her tongue sweeping over the wriggling, mewling blur that would one day be known as @Mallaidh. “She is angry!” She nosed her daughter gently to her flank and craned her neck to observe.

Aries, Cassiopeia, and Sirius would live.

---

Lotte spent the better part of an hour in a kaleidoscopic haze of anticipation and euphoria — but when nothing seemed to really happen for that hour, she found herself wondering whether her dream of a large litter would come to fruition or whether all of her efforts would be poured into just one tiny, shadow-wrapped princess. She could no longer put off the inevitable, though, and she tipped back her head to howl a single announcements to whichever members of her Family were in earshot: “All is well.” It was shortly after this cry went up that she experienced the worst pain she had ever experienced, surpassing even the burns she’d sustained during the Donnelaith fires. Breathing raggedly, she emitted a deep groan that crescendoed into a high pitched whine. “No, no,” she begged senselessly, a river of Common and Tundran spilling from her panting mouth. Following the will of her body, Lotte strained for a good half hour before finally — finally! — a much larger sac slipped from her. Sobbing for breath, she just barely managed to gently scoop the bundle near to her and nip through the membrane — but what she saw astounded her.

Two heads, not one, poked out of the sac. Dumbstruck, she cleaned both tiny faces — they were smaller than their sister and snowy white. One of the cubs — @Roarke the Spleenbane — immediately began attempting to nurse, latching onto his mother’s lip like a tiny little sucker fish before she cleaned him off and nosed him alongside his sister at her side. The other, though, appeared to be deceased. Lotte licked at the female twin insistently, but the new mother was so flustered from the shock and the pain that she missed the flicker of movement as she nosed the little girl toward Hemlock for aid.

She offered a little smile to the Banrion, her tender joke had worked to do its job and broke some of the tension that had laced the night. While the little pups would not know their mothers love they had known nothing but. No pain or sorrow would ever touch them, for them would be buried as they had been wrought with nothing but tender affection. "No one would want to carry out such a heavy sentence."  Hemlock said softly, pressing her snout to Lotte's temple tenderly. It was a victory to them all when the next puppy born lives and breathed, fighting out against her mother and Hemlock gave a shakey laugh. "A true fighter,"  She said joyously. 

Silence filled the densite. An hour passed in trepidation but she watched the fighting spirit of the youngest Fearghal and the girl seemed to thrive, it brought her joy. She fell quiet, watching as the Banrion bore down again. Her eyes watched intensely as a larger pup appeared, but rather than one child two appeared - and the first seemed to be so eager her latched on his mother's lip. The girl however, Lotte had tried to rouse and it did not seem to breathe. 

The healer took her to her breast, nuzzling the child and clearing her nose and mouth. She nudged her stomach gently, giving a whoop of a laugh when the puppy squirmed and cried out indignantly. Hemlock lifted her, returning her to her mother, pressing another little kiss to Lotte's brow. "Three beautiful children,"  She murmured softly, smiling at the woman. 

Whatever it is, it most certainly isn’t going to take her alive.
 
The moment the air touches her damp skin, she releases a battle cry and flail of her legs. It takes all her energy in a matter of seconds before she’s overcome with her mother’s tongue. The new sensation makes the exhaustion feel okay and she’s discovering one new thing after another. She no longer feels the night to fight back with everything she has and her cries turn into a soft mumbles of half sound and half god.
 
It is cold in this world and she feels hunger for the first time, both quickly overshadowing the comfort she had seconds before. Another bellow of a cry releases and she’s nudged around roughly and she can’t help the gentle huff of displeasure escaping her. Rude.
 
A smell draws her attention and her wailing turns into inquisitive squeaks and grunts until she finally found the thing she’s looking for. She doesn’t know what it is, or why she’s meant to find it, but the sweet taste of milk on her tongue urges her on and she does as her body is told, sucking against the flesh in her mouth and filling her stomach until she’s going to explode. Her sides are swollen with life and the space behind her closed eyes feels heavy and begins to weight her down. Eventually, her head is too difficult to hold up and with the teat still in her mouth, Mallaidh falls asleep face first into her mother’s breast.
 
After a while, sudden movements and occasionally she feels overwhelmed by the presence of her mother above her. She waits in tune to her pain, legs scrambling to fight the disruption.

what even is this post? i don't know, lmao.

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In Roarke’s world there had existed only peace. He simply came to be. He simply is. He floats about in his sac, occasionally stretching into one of the other things he felt within the womb, unaware that his sac was shared. He should have consumed the other thing in his sac. He does not. She (though he is not so aware of gender or even, really, what they are) becomes. Like him. Roarke has no concept of time, no way to grasp such a thing as he is as infinite as all young gods. The peace erupts when the tremors start. They stir him from his slumber, they disrupt his serene swimming. He snuggles against the other body in his sac as archaic instincts are awoken within him. Proof that he exists, that he is lives. Their shared space has not given him much room to grow and it has made her weak. He senses it even though he has no understanding of it. So he curls close when the tremors happen as if he can absorb the quakes of his mother’s womb with his body and shield Her from it. There are prolonged moments of peace and he forgets until another tremor rocks them. He does not know how long this goes on for — he is oblivious to the world outside of Lotte’s womb and the turmoil and stress that has been placed upon his mother’s body. He is innocent. He is untouced by the rapture of ruin that threatens his life and the lives of the others.

He does not know that the ruin claims two. The tremors are the most violent he has felt and he stirs, uneasy within the shared space, straining and impatient. For what he cannot know. As his litter mates are pushed from Lotte’s womb the he stretches within their shared sac and recognizes in a very rudimentary manner that isn’t overly coherent that he has space. Finally! Perhaps with space he can grow and She can grow strong. This peace does not last. Time passes before he is swept up in the next violent tremor as he and his twin are labored into the world. His body is the first to feel the pull of gravity to a world that he is blind and deaf to. To a world whose ruin will not touch him yet. The protective sac around them cushions the fall to the den floor and he cushions his twin in turn. He breached the membrane that had been their nourishment, their entire world and latched blindly onto his mother’s lip and begun to suckle as instinct bade him to. He is unaware that he is quite far from his mark and that he still has (gross) secretions slicking his iced snow pelage like oil. He is dislodged with a defiant cry of protest that he feels through the vibration of his vocal chords but he is utterly deaf to. The smooth of his mother’s tongue against his face briefly knocks him breathless — it is both rough and warm, pleasant and strange and he wiggles as if to escape the bath (probably a good indication to the future) but he is weak and exhausts himself before he can worm himself too far. It is with Lotte’s guidance and nudge against his pudgy belly that he makes it to her breast at all. He is squished up against another small body but he is instantly distracted by what he can weakly smell as his mother’s sweet milk and he noses Lotte’s breast, nuzzling himself against her bosom as if he can melt into her fur as her warmth washes over him. He mouths at fur in his search for what he instinctively knows will sustain him with life, leaving an unattractive trail of slimy baby saliva (sorry mama!) upon her fur before he finds what he seeks and latches onto a teat as he previously latched onto her lip and suckles, the warm mother’s milk sliding down his throat, a burst of succulent saccharinity a pleasant discovery to his taste-buds. He feels his twin’s absence though after his belly is full and he lets out a wail for Eirlys, demanding and pained all at once. Where was she?

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Thread is open to all puppies, Hemlock, @Chusi, @Arturo, and @Dagfinn if in earshot. ♥
Hopefully it does not tag everyone a billion times again. x__x

Lotte was exhausted to a degree she could not accurately measure, in a way she could not coherently articulate. Nestled at her flank were three tiny bodies — smaller than Olive’s had been but vividly, palpably alive. She felt — everything. She felt what Olive had felt — a link to the mist-shrouded mother, to all mothers — but she felt it too late. She felt surun aihe for Hemlock — for surely, the honor of bearing Teaghlaigh’s first litter ought to have belonged to its first mated couple. Now that she could afford to be, she was worried about Aries and Cassiopeia — about Sirius — and she feared that her softness in regard to the remaining child would draw the attention of wolves like Declan, Conan, and Lia, who were accustomed to Quicksilver Hollow and Teaghlaigh’s first incarnation. Above all, though, she felt love — love for her husband, her daughter, these smaller daughters, and her son. “Liekkikukka,” she murmured, her argent eyes heavy-lidded with a sudden overwhelming sense of calm generated by the nursing of her cubs. “What do we do about Sirius? He is ill — and ours. Can he be saved?” She craned her neck to fussily preen at the white cubs in particular, grooming their white fur to as immaculate a state as she could. The dark female — dark as Dagfinn, Lotte beamed with pride — was next on the relentless grooming list; Banríon feared she was too still, though in truth the girl was just sleeping. Long sweeps of her tongue bathed her firstborn’s tiny face.

Just when Lotte thought everything was settled at last, a sixth and final set of contractions gripped her. In comparison to his siblings, the boy who would one day be known as @Ceallach was gentler — a fortunate thing for the exhausted young mother. Ten minutes of moderate pain and forcible straining later, she held her second son between her forepaws — and what she saw made her weep. She bathed him as ardently as she had the other three, her tears falling upon his infinitesimal face — for here was Arturo in miniature form, brown as a sea lion with a telltale darkening of the velveteen upon his face and legs.

“Hemlock, liekkikukka,” she breathed. “Without you, they would not live — maybe I would not live. I would lay down my life for you, liekkikukka.” The smoke-and-shadow Banríon bowed deeply to her companion before calling in her husband, brother, and daughter: “Come and meet the little bears!” The nickname she’d coined was in tribute to Arturo’s own name as much as her family suffix, -bjørn.

Like his siblings before him, Ceallach had felt nothing before he had come to be. It was a mystery, some sort of age-old beautiful thing that had swept him up and plucked him from whatever dust the universe had stolen to make him. He had felt it, a change in his only known world, and he had fought against it with feeble little feet as he struggled and kicked against the world. Why was it changing? What was all this? The thoughts would vanish as soon as they came and Ceallach would forget and he would settle with each fading contraction. Things were different, he noticed, with more space but then he forgot that too - all of his known world seemed different, for a bit, than it had been before. 

He hadn't meant to be so late to the party, the only child who had attempted to hold out and not show up early. Now though, that he was out, he was cold and he was screaming - making up for the moments of peace his mother had been feeling, stealing all that euphoria and those nursing-induced responses. Soon though he was nestled against what was familiar, little figures near his to touch and kick at as they had been the last couple months. Something was different though, his purpose was greater and he was inspired to move by a new sensation. Blindly he bobbed his head and shuffled his feet until he touched on a thing. His mother. 

He didn't know her tender concerns or the way she preened over him or the fact he looked like his father. All he knew was that she was familiar in some strange way and it was a comfort and when he finally rooted and found a nipple it was a satisfaction he'd never known before. Milk was sweet, and this too was new and it was good, and before he filled his stomach and had fallen asleep still latched those thoughts were gone too, hazy like some dream. Maybe life wouldn't be so bad. 

While Lotte seemed so grateful Hemlock was unsure why - she'd put in all the hard work after all! The healer nosed tenderly at the Banrion's temple, nuzzling and smoothing out her fur. "You have made all mothers proud tonight," She said softly, her tail curled protectively over the two cubs who had not made it. All in all, even with the slight hiccups, the labor process had gone smoothly. The inquiry brought a slight frown to Hemlock's lips, her gaze softening as it trailed across the four figures tucked to Lotte's breast. "I will do all I can to help him. I do not want to see any harm to a child, but they are soft and weak in the worst of ways at first." She lamented. "We will do all we can for him - I know that. And yours - they have a strong sense to them, we will find ways to help them along too." Hemlock couldn't work miracles but she had never believed in her cause more than when it came to the children of Teaghlaigh.

She let out a slow breath when Lotte beckoned her family closer, feeling as if she was intruding on that moment but she would no-more abandon the cubs she had been safeguarding than she would these wolves. They were her family, even if the bonds were forged by determination and concern, and she was proud of them. Still, if she was requested to leave, she would do so without hesitation - whatever was requested of her. 

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He is away on patrols when Lotte’s contractions start and though he understand why she has not called for him until after his children are born he cannot help the seize of jealousy as he scents Hemlock’s scent in the birthing den. The scents that assault him are familiar but it has been a long time since he has known them. The scent of blood and birthing secretions and the scent of sweet mother’s milk. Though he knows he is being irrational in his jealousy he cannot help but feel that it should have been him present for their birth though he is no midwife. He is intensely grateful for Hemlock’s presence for he knows that the babes are a week too early and thus their lives were in jeopardy but he cannot help but feel that he is denied his right as their father. Instead, someone else got to see them born into the world. He is bitter over so many things these days that he does not want to be bitter over that but he is all the same. It feels as if bitterness is all he knows these days leaving a sharp, metallic tang in his mouth. His ears slick back as he hesitates, cruel in his thought of why should he even bother to see them now? He was denied the most miraculous part of being a father: seeing them be born. His frustration of the events have yet to cease despite that he was swift and decisive on the matter(s).

The woman he loves has just given birth to their children. What the fuck is wrong with me? He should be happy but his happiness has been denied to him too. It was stolen from him the moment that Olive and Dakarai came crawling back to Teaghlaigh with wounds and a trail that led danger right to their fucking doorstep. His children are not out of the water yet, he suspects, and thus neither is he. He almost doesn’t want to shrug his way into the birthing den. Arturo almost doesn’t. He hears the sounds of suckling as they feed and quiet mewls as they sleep and he is instinctively drawn in. Lotte draws his eye first, as she always has and as she always will. She looks exhausted. He thinks it must be exhaustive: bringing life into the world but he is comforted that though exhausted she is alive and appears well. Hemlock would have to reaffirm his assumptions and reassure him but he is content enough with his own observation as he draws nearer to her, mindful of the tiny, fragile lives nested against her.

She is beautiful and his breath is stolen away from him as he extends his muzzle towards her to draw his tongue against her cheek and nuzzle against the cup of her ear. His gaze of twin suns moves down to finally look upon his children. Their children. They are beautiful — every single one of them. She has given birth to four healthy albeit small children. The largest is female, her pelage dark, beside her is a male, a pudgy cream puff. Arturo almost misses that he is not one wolf but that there are two ivory plumed babes — a male and female — and he thinks that is is a shame his mother is not here to see that her genes are still strong in her grandchildren (even though Arturo is not aware of the color changing thing of his wife’s family). Last but far from least his gaze touches the last — a boy, his newborn, downy coat already showing signs of taking strongly after the gangster’s own. He looks at the picture that is painted before him: the love of his life nursing their newborn children and feels a love so heavy he worries it might crush him. It’s not quite happiness but it is true love and it is infinitely better. Happiness could be fleeting but this kind of love was eternal. “They’re …—” The articulate gangster struggles for a word. The right word. None he could conjure seem to articulate what he is searching for adequately. “perfect doesn’t even begin to adequately describe it but it is the best I can do.” Arturo gives a choked laugh as he moves to kiss Lotte again. “I love you,” He murmurs against her ear.

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Dagfinn had been pacing anxiously nearby, his nerves frayed by the endless sounds of pain and worry from the King Sequoia. It went against everything he was to not come to Lotte's aide, but instinct and propriety bid him to wait for someone to call him before venturing close to the woman's sacred den.

And she was a woman, now. She was not just his sister, not just his twin. She was a wife and a mother, now. And, although Dag was terribly proud of her, he was also very sorry to have to give her this space, step aside so that Arturo might stand where he had once stood. He knew that Lotte would always love him the same, but they would no longer be a duo. He would have to share her, now.

But eventually, she remembered him - as she always would - and Dagfinn padded forward with all the excitement of a new father.

... until he reached the den, and realized he was not too fond of puppies in their smallest incarnation.

"Good job, lumi pusku," he murmured, chosing to remain on the outskirts of the new little family, beside the red woman he did not know by name. "You made more little snow-bears. Which one is named after me?"

Now that the pain was over — along with the waiting and the worry and the wretched fear — Lotte could afford to bask in the relatively textbook birth of her children. She felt…emptied out. It was hard for her to focus on any one emotion, but the overarching theme that rocked her was joy. She managed a smile for Hemlock but merely rested her head on her paws as her children nursed, and her tail thumped heartily at the sight of her husband. Ignorant to his jealousy — in Lotte’s experience, a female gave birth alone or with another female, then presented her children to the homecoming warrior with a casual expression and a few boasting quips about how easy it had been — she greeted him with boundless warmth and love in her eyes. “I love you, rakas. You are my life — and you are a new father,” she drew breath to murmur quietly, her attention shifting to Dagfinn as he hunkered down beside Hemlock. Her argent eyes were very soft, almost a dove gray with contentment, as she glanced to the four little bundles at her side.

“This one,” she decided on a whim, recalling the names she had discussed with Arturo and casting her love a conspirator’s smile as she nuzzled the female twin with the wet of her nose. “She is Eirlys Dagny Fearghal — there are already enough Dagfinns and none better than you.”

The last thing was a more private affair, as Lotte quietly rose her eyes to her husband and then to Dagfinn with an apologetic frown. “There are two that did not live,” she said plainly, motioning toward the cold little bodies without looking directly at them. She would focus on her living children. “I do not know your customs for laying them to rest.”

Hemlock tucked in on herself not only to not crowd the family but because as Arturo and Dagfinn both approached to inspect the brood she was acutely aware that she was not family. She lowered herself respectfully to her Alpha, certainly not groveling but she was tired from the extensive day and she wanted to not make any other waves either. She just wanted to take an outside approach, but until Lotte directed Arturo's attention to the two children born still Hemlock finally unwound herself to allow the father to inspect those babies. She lifted herself from them, moving as gingerly as if they lived, and took a couple steps back so that she was not in the way. It suddenly was near suffocating, and Hemlock offered a bow to each of them - it didn't feel right to stay now that her task was fulfilled and beyond that, a new one would start soon. Sirius would be delivered to her, and she would need to invest her energies in finding a suitable place for both of them to live that was nearby but not encroaching on the Fearghal cubs. 

"If you need me, I will be within earshot." Hemlock said softly as she turned to crawl out of the den to allow the family time to enjoy this moment together. If they called or stopped her, she would comply, otherwise she would let them bask in one another in peace and relative quiet. 

You all made such beautiful posts. ;-;
Meanwhile, KJ remembers how difficult it is to play a newborn puppy and flounders among your greatness.

The moments following Eirlys and Roarke’s birth are bewildering and unsettling — a flurry of movement and frenzy that the little blossom is helpless to comprehend. Unlike her feistier siblings, she shuts down completely — and perhaps this underwhelming entrance is indicative of her future response to life’s trials and tribulations. Until the wise woman gently prods at her with the cool wet of her nose, Eirlys remains limp and unmoving but for the erratic rise and fall of her tiny breast and the thrum of her pulse that is visible through her baby fur. She is essentially stunned, her developing mind whirring frantically as she registers sensation after sensation in a dizzying rush. Nothing is familiar; she instinctively longs for the warm, comforting press of her siblings and utters a frail, mewling cry of protest that only seems to make things worse. Against her will, she leaves the ground behind and is deposited somewhere else entirely.

The snowdrop becomes aware of warmth — a pleasant, ticklish sensation that causes her skin to tingle from the blunt nub of her nose to the trembling tip of her stubby tail — as her mother bathes her thoroughly. She squeaks softly, ridiculously pink paws splaying every which way in an experimental manner. Being placed between Mallaidh and Roarke comforts her, for the feeling of being squished is more familiar than anything else she’s experienced in this new world so far. Although her first instinct is to nurse, stimulated by the wriggling, squirming bodies of her siblings as they do exactly that, she doesn’t seem to get the gist of it. Her first clumsy attempts involve the side of @Mallaidh’s face, and it is only when she is detached with an audible little pop! of her suckling mouth and redirected that she figures out what she’s supposed to be doing. The moment the first droplets of sweet nectar trickle down her throat, her forehead seems to tauten — if her eyes were open, they would have widened in surprised pleasure — and she latches on with a will. Her folded ears twitch with the zeal of her nursing as she burbles happily.

Please just ignore Chusbus XD

Of course, the new big sister had been drawn to the birthing den ever since they had come here. She hated the thought of Lotte giving birth so soon after their merciless trip to the Hinterlands so much that she had trouble controlling her emotions. Often did she snap at something that was irritating her and yet also sobbed whenever something not even slightly sad happened. She was anxious; nervous and most of all afraid. But time did not stop for even the cutest of warrior princesses; the day came where Lotte gave birth and there was nothing Chusi could truly do. Well... there was one thing.

She had gone out of her way to hunt down a weak, thin rabbit in the new lands that she knew nothing of. That she had caught something at all was miraculous but she didn't feel proud. She should've advised Arturo... She could've prevented this all if she had not shown mercy to the two traitors that had caused all of this.

She trotted in a hurry to the den, not sure to stick her head in to get a slight glance of her new siblings or wait outside for someone to invite her in. Her gift she lay near the opening of the den; hoping the smell of food was enough to make them realize she was there. Then, she plopped her but down and curled her tail around her feet, blinking worriedly.

Please let @Arturo reply first.

@Chusi and @Dagfinn, feel free to weigh in on the naming! Last post from Lotte and Eirlys.

The moment she heard her first daughter outside the den, “Chusi!” Lotte cried out joyfully. She spared a moment to bid Hemlock farewell, exchanging a few last tender, meaningful words with the wise woman who had guided her through travail. “You can come closer if you wish, perhonen,” she gently encouraged the ocher-eyed adolescent. Life had not been kind to Chusi, whose world had been turned upside down over the past few weeks. Arturo and Lotte had been sorely inconvenienced and troubled by the move, but the Ríchíosa had far more at stake: she had lost friends and moved away from others, had been essentially let down by wolves she’d trusted, and had been stripped of her sense of security and innocence. Her plight had not been lost on Lotte despite the rogue’s growing preoccupation with the demands of her pregnancy.

At present, she did feel a little stretched thin. She was beginning to see that her love for Dagfinn, though unchanged in fervor and loyalty, had to make room for other great loves: namely, her love for her newborn children, her love for Chusi, and her love for Arturo. If you’d asked Lotte pre-Arturo whether she would choose to save the life of her twin or her mate, she’d have said ten times out of ten that it was Dagfinn she’d choose. She was still naïve — she would probably still choose Dagfinn — but even thinking about losing Chusi or Arturo now, after they’d been through so much together, was terrifying.

Fortunately, the overextended feeling was soon eclipsed by the hypnotic pull of four tiny mouths, and Lotte felt utterly invincible. “Their names are Mallaidh Furiosa, Roarke Altaïr, and Ceallach — who needs a second name,” she said, murmuring the names she and Arturo had discussed previously. “This one must be Mallaidh Furiosa,” she intoned, pressing her lips to her firstborn’s crown, “for this one is the only other female, already named for her favorite uncle.” Reverently she repeated the gesture to the snowdrop. She then looked to the Ceannasach for his opinion, though her argent gaze settled briefly on Chusi and then Dagfinn’s faces in turn. “Who should be Ceallach and who should be Roarke?” she wondered, nosing lovingly at each of her tiny sons. “What should Ceallach’s second name be?”

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Chusi comes to the mouth of the birthing den but does not come inside, likely waiting for an invitation. The gangster’s gaze settles upon his newborn children as Lotte invites Chusi in with enthusiasm. The press of bodies makes the gangster feel claustrophobic and he resists the urge to raise his hackles and upper lip and chase all that are gathered and crammed in out. This many bodies means a greater chance for one of the newborns to get trampled and her territoriality and protective instincts have only strengthened over the course of Lotte’s pregnancy. Ceannasach is distracted from his heightening desire to command all besides Lotte (and himself) to get out as Lotte names their children, naming the darkest of the bunch Mallaidh Furiosa and the smallest and frail of their newborns Eirlys Dagny. The question is posed out loud and not to anyone specific though Arturo, as the father, feels that it should fall to him to name the two boys and speaks up, “The twin of the smallest will be Roarke and my miniature will be Caellach.” As he christens the boys he touches each of them in turn, gently, with his muzzle before he does the same to the girls, extra careful with the frailest of the four.

Realizing that he had yet to address her first concern: the two stillborns his gaze goes to the stiffening corpses. He realizes he does not have any traditions for this is the first time he has ever had stillborns. He was fortune that all of his children survived in his first litter to not have had to think of it. The birthing den was crowded and instead of chasing those out that he felt didn’t need to be there — because he is prickly and still on razor edge from everything that had befallen Teaghlaigh and the immense pressure upon his shoulders — Ceannasach scoops up the corpses gently and takes them one by one outside the den where he finds a nice spot to bury them. When he is finished he lingers, sentry to the precious lives within the birthing den but he does not re-enter until the others have parted ways with the young, new mother and the newborns suckling at her breast.

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