Wheeling Gull Isle what does it mean to be descendent of something monstrous

for the bebes! tagging @Hemlock for reference, though if you'd like to hop in at any point sonia, feel free! ♥

He tries to stay away. He really, truly does. Witchdoctor is as attentive as he can be, leaving food for Hemlock though he knows he’s not the only one. Not-his-children are fairly attentive to Hemlock as well. It might have been inspirational to see the broken Fearghal family sticking together as best they could with their matriarch dead and their patriarch “killed” by a madman. Witchdoctor is drawn in, unintentionally enraptured by the infants that are tiny and frail perfections. He is their father ( or rather, he’s the father that they’re stuck with ) and he does not promise that he’ll be a good one. In point of fact, his warped sense of paternal instincts most definitely suggests he’ll be a terrible father. He’s a little bit jealous and spell bound by them all at once ( and frankly that's a bit exhausting at times ). He relieves Hemlock with the intention of giving her some time to stretch her legs and give her a break from den arrest but Witchdoctor suspects she does not go far, perhaps not trusting him all that much. Fiery, twin sun gaze rests upon the two blobs huddled together as he settles into his flame-kissed wife’s spot, still delightfully warm. The prematurely greying coywolf scoots around a bit to get comfortable — surprisingly mindful of the small bodies pressing close to his side — noting that his spawn work as ‘silencers’ to the voices as well that had blissfully gone dormant momentarily. No doubt as soon as he’s out of their and Hemlock’s radius they will come screaming back with shrilling, vengeful war cries of “how dare you” as they are prone to do, the little bastards anyway ( the voices not the children ). He revels in the quiet inside his mind though the babes are noisy and “quiet” is a relative term. “@Droman and @Reed,” He murmurs their names in a quieted rumble to them but …he’s isn’t exactly sure who is who, admittedly.

l'enfant is still a squirming ball of fat and fluff. her little eyes have opened weakly, revealing their puppy-blue irises, though she still cannot make sense of the world around her in more than confused jumbles of shapes of warmth. the absence of her primary comfort (though she still lacks a vocabulary for the warm-shape her developing mind knows it provides security) rouses her from her relatively calm-as-ever state and she begins to squall until the primary comfort is quickly replaced by something - something different, equally warm but not the primary comfort. her tiny voice quiets momentarily, evaluating the situation, and then she resumes her whines, baby-paws scrabbling at the secondary figure's ... shape. and thus, the complicated relationship between reed and her would-be father the witchdoctor begins not with a bang but with a disappointed whimper.

One of the babes begins to let out a cry that might put a banshee’s teeth on edge. As his gangster counterpart took all of his experience and knowledge of children to the grave with him Witchdoctor is left in the “new father” stage. Fumbling around without knowing what the hell he’s doing because while, perhaps, there should have been instincts he has none. The babe, Droman or Reed — seriously how does Hemlock know? Is it a mother thing? — quiets down for a few moments and Witchdoctor breaths a sigh of relief believing that to be the end of it. He is dead wrong. The whines resume with the scrape of tiny paws against his flank. The doctor rolls onto his side, shifting so that he can look at the scrappy infant, drawing back in indignation when the babe lets out a disappointed whine. That…actually stung, his pride smarting. Though neither child could see it: he rolls his eyes. “Trust me, the feeling’s mutual, pipsqueak.” Witchdoctor huffs at the lack of approval from his spawn. “S’not like you’re very impressive yourself. All you do is eat, sleep and poop yourself. You two aren’t even fun yet.” Despite the smarted grumble there is a distinct tone of unmistakable affection in the Witchdoctor’s voice ( a product of that spell they have over him, he would readily argue ).

 had she the capacity, the once-was princess would take umbrage with her would-be father's statement. as it is, his words are gibberish, though interesting enough gibberish that she stops her whining for a moment. reed still doesn't know if she likes this secondary figure - it's definitely nothing compared to primary comfort - but she maneuvers her way back toward his side again. she is disappointed by the lack of teat - if secondary figure can't even feed her then what's the point? but the low grumble of his voice is soothing and she makes a series of small whine-yap noises, vaguely imitiating the cadence of his own sentence to the best of her tiny, tiny ability.

As much as Witchdoctor is enchanted by the small beans he’s also …disillusioned. He struggles to understand what all the fuss is about — why everyone wants to get pregnant and get women pregnant. These tiny beans were incredibly vulnerable and currently extremely useless. They kept Hemlock confined to the den and they’ve filled him with obligation. Yet, the coywolf can’t walk away and he knows because he’s tried. The small beastie nestles into his side and he lets out a soft huff — purely theatrical. As much as he pretends to hate it the witch, in actuality, does not mind the child’s burying into his fur; because he could be as disgruntled as he’d like but these two little fragile babes were his fragile babes. The doctor’s ears swivel back to slick against the curve of his skull as she lets out a series of yip-yap noises. “Ssshhh,” The nightmare croons to his small daughter hoping to quiet her some lest she wake up the dead. “How does such a tiny body hold such impressive lungs?” Witchdoctor inquires lifting his head to check on the quiet, still slumbering child to ensure that he was, indeed, alright. The doctor envied the second child on the ability to sleep through the squealing child’s banshee noises.

just throwing sth up to keep reed from inactive!

the way the secondary figure speaks entrances her. "shh shh," the princess mimicks, her incessant symphony of sound winding down as she's lulled into sleep. impressive as her lungs may be, being awake requires a lot of energy and her tiny puppy body is quick to shut off. gradually her yaps turn to softened grumbles and then into gentle snores as she finally gives into sleep against the warm side of this disappointing -- yet fascinating -- figure in her life.