Blackfeather Woods She wears me down to bones in bed

Also @Atli if you'd like. I dunno if he's sleeping with her or not

This feeling was familiar.

It was the second time it had occured, but she knew what it meant as soon as she woke up, her stomach in a tumult, sloshing, pushing towards her esophagus. She stumbled out of her den, nearly tripping over @Vaati and @Koume in the process, stepping on Ganondorf at least once or twice, kicking @Kotake — she was a mess, that was clear to anyone who knew her well.

The nausea hit her harder than it had during her first pregnancy. Perhaps, in its own way, it was reflecting the circumstances in the conception. Disgust, anger, self-loathing, hatred, shame. She felt the emotions of her coupling in the taste of the bile as it passed through her mouth, along with the last meal she could force down her throat.

Her mind swam as the rankness hit her nose and registered in her brain. Her throat burned. There was no other way that she could describe it. Flames sprouted in her throat and mulled there, remaining long after she stopped heaving. She didn't move for a long time, panting over the slop and filth at her feet, her brain blank.

we can say that he is. i doubt he'd mind sharing a den with her, lol. ;-)

Atli dreams of fog and smoke and shadows. Of nothing specific and no one in particular: just the never-ending yawning stretch of Niflheim. The world of fog and the dead, ruled by Hel herself. The northman stirs awake enough to be aware of Potema’s absence as she stumbles away from him, but yet lingers in the realm of half asleep and initially thinks nothing of it, his head dropping back to his paws as slumber refuses to yet let the Berserker back into the world. Until he heard her retch. Velveteen ears twitched upon his ears as he startles awake, warrior instincts and training too far ingrained in him to ignore the noise even though he knew it wasn’t dangerous. Well, no, it was but it wasn’t the same kind of danger. There were only several things that made a woman vomit and as she didn’t strike him as being sick ( but alas he was no medic ) his mind could only jump to one conclusion. That didn’t mean Atli was correct though.

The ásabragr rises and careful not to wake the slumbering children he steps around them, struggling to find Potema in the dark for a moment, focusing on her pale shape with his good eye. He is greeted by the pungent scent of acidic vomit and his stomach turns on it’s own — ironic because there was little in the world that could turn the berserker’s stomach: blood, cannibalism, torture, the snap of bones. No. Vomit? Yes. He does not yet try to make sense of what they were to one another, what they had the potential to be, or what they may never become. Their …relationship is undefined, confusing, bizarre and he is not so sure what he is to call her. Is Potema too informal? Is High Priestess too formal? Undecided, he calls her neither. He moves towards her, making no moves to hide his footfalls so he did not startle her.

“Are you alright?” His lilting accent holds his genuine concern for her. He can’t help but feel it’s a heavy, loaded question and yet, it’s the only thing that the northman can think of to ask.

She breaks from her stupor with the now-familiar lilting accent of Atli. She never thought that one of her flings — who were merely intended to be donors — would ever lay with her in her den. But Mephala had brought him to her for one reason or another, the purpose of which she would soon find out. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she was a step in Atli's story.

She turned to him, her breathing still ragged and laced with coughs and chokes. I'm fine, she eventually gasped out, but they both knew that was a lie. Eventually she staggered over to the pool and under the waterfall — despite the fact that her children were large enough to find dens of their own, she was still in the Spiderling's Cove. She would be staying there for much longer now, it seemed.

Atli doesn’t believe her as Potema replies that she is fine. It shows in the terse line of his lips, the flicker of his velveteen ears as they partially slick back to rest at half mast atop his skull. He avoids looking at the pile of sick on the earthen floor and subtly tries to hold his breath. When he can no longer take the burn in his lungs, the beg of release and draw of air he lets it out and breathes in slowly. It is still rancid and pungent this way but it helps, some. He follows behind her a few steps as she moves to get a drink and he is glad, nevertheless, that she is trying to hydrate herself. He plays it over in his head, thinking that it’s possible she just has a bug, that her stomach is just unwell from something that she’d eaten but …she was a medic. She had herbs and medicines to fix that, to soothe her stomach.

He wonders if it is possible for her to be pregnant. Atli is no expert when it comes to women or their biological clocks…so, naturally it remains just a fleeting suspicion in his mind; but the suspicion regardless of how fleeting drags with it a sharp flare of jealousy; which was ridiculous because he knew that night that he’d not been her first, nor her last. But, he is ready to argue with himself, that was different. A donation of his seed with no expectation of anything other than a pleasurable night. Things were …different now. Or they could be. She remains an enigma to the berserker, yes, but here he is and here she is and they’ve been sharing a bed den.

He does not focus upon these things for long figuring that he …they have plenty of time to figure things out. If there was even anything to figure out. “Potema,” He croons her name, hesitating for a moment. He does not want to pry because it’s not really any of his business but at the same time he wants to be here for her. To be a shoulder she could lean on if she needed…if she wanted; but as he does not know how to communicate such verbally he does not even try. He leaves it unsaid upon the fading croon of her name, a promise and a plea.

Koume had become a light sleeper ever since her time far away from home, and because her malnourished figure was anything but comfortable - even on bedding or grass. She had learned to cope with it, but slumbering more than a few hours was a blessing every night. As mother stumbled and tripped, she remained still. Even as the sound of vomiting (a sound she didn't immediately recognize) did she stay like another part of their den. never moving. Uncaring. But, when the male that had somehow found a way into her mother's den awoke from his slumber as well did she move.

A sharp gaze was cast upon the couple as she poked her head up from all of her sibling's slumbering forms. She lifted herself, not catching on on their conversation as she tried not to step on her brothers and sister. What is this gathering about? She asked in a whisper that was rather powerful for such a weakling. She pulled her nose up at the smell of vomit - she didn't know if anyone (perhaps her crazy uncle?) was a fan of the stinking, chunky mess that it was, but she really wasn't. She had let to truly learn of the birds and the bees. Well? Spill it. She commanded, even if only a sliver of a second had passed. That was more than enough for her to become demanding.

Mention of @Kotake here

She immerses herself in the waters, one unsteady step at a time. She was focused not on answering Atli's questions, but relieving herself of the harsh grinding in the back of her throat as her stomach acid ate away at her esophagus' lining. She gulped the water desperatly, knowing that it was a paltry substitute compared to honey. But it was all that she had at the moment, and she took that blessing liberally.

I'm fine, She repeated, her voice firmer than before. She didn't want to show any signs of her pregnancy to him. The moment he suspected was the moment that questions would be asked. Questions that she did not want to answer. At least not yet.

Her daughter's presence was not a surprise to her, nor was Kotake's a few moments later; Koume's quiet shadow. Potema frowned at them, even as water dripped from her body, smearing the streaks of vomit that marred her pallid pelt. Go back to bed, please, She insisted, her voice rough and wavering. Do not worry about me,