Blackfeather Woods Parasites in my stomach

@Seff

She was round with child, only three weeks away from giving birth. As the world around them froze, she relished the warmth the Redgrove gave her, the opening in the dark canopy allowing light to filter in, and with it warmth, something she desperately desired. She was careful to remove as many thorns as she could, though as she shifted she felt one or two dig into her side.

Potema laid spread out in the grove, on her back, her white pelt clashing with the field of blood around her. She snored gently, her stomach moving up and down, thanks to her breathing and the gentle movement of her pups within. As they grew and grew she felt as if her skin was thinning around them, like a balloon (if she knew what that was) filling with more and more air. Every day she felt as if that layer of skin between them grew weaker and weaker and weaker.

They were moving gently today — were they sleeping like her? — but every once and a while one of them kicked hard, making the pale mother grunt and growl in her sleep, reprimanding them.

He chanced upon her in the Redgrove, a small smile on his features when he first saw her pale form among the red. He stepped confidently toward her, smile still on his features, coming to a halt at the edge of the grove, not wishing to disturb her in her sleep, her state which he now noticed. Yet it would do poorly to stare at her like some kind of weirdo, thus he greeted, "Hello, Potema."

he waited patiently for a few moments; should she not reply he would quietly take his leave, yet he hoped that she woke and he did not disturb her too greatly, for he longed for a conversation with the mentor that had become such an important figure in his life.

She did not sense her apprentice's presence until his soft voice invaded her dreams. Her remaining eye opened to see his warm collection of browns, tans, and golds, a strange fur pattern in the Woods. Her body rolled so that she was laying on her side, and her head rose. The witch yawned, licking her chops. Hello, Seff, 

Funny, the things that had gone over his head or he had merely ignored when he had been here. Entrapped in his learning, the knowledge this place offered, he had failed to notice so much that now attracted his attention in volumes. So eager had he been, so naive. But that had changed but a few days ago, when he saw the head. It had been most decomposed, nothing but staring sockets and frozen bits of flesh. He had recoiled, thinking that he had happened upon a burial site. 
But there had been no body. 

"Why is there a head?" He blurted, face heating quickly, but steady in his resolve. But a moment later, he clarified. "I found a head. By the border." He said, watching her carefully. He had his suspicions, his fears, and what came to mind was the dark, nightmarish glory that was Nemesis. And her terrible, terrible wraith, that he had not since seen but that was easily gleaned from her imposing presence. He had no qualms in asking his mentor, though still he was nervous.

The witch felt her children stir within her as she woke, her body's movement probably waking them, or at least, as best as unborn pups can be woken. She lapped her stomach gently for a bit, waiting for Seff's question. 

Her head lifted. Why did he sound so frightened? A test, She murmured softly, knowing that while Seff had been raised within the darkness of the Woods, he had not seen the true Void behind it. For those who would join; this is not a pack for the faint of heart, This is not a pack for your mother, she wanted to say. Vuk was too skittish, too pure for the pack. His father seemed more durable than she, but they would not abandon each other.

His brow furrowed, watching her carefully. " Who's head is it?" He asked, though he still had a great deal more questions, one of the most important being, or course, "why did someone feel the need to remove someone's head, and perhaps what did said person do to have their head removed? Fear did not present itself, only a slight nervousness plagued him, and the possibility, of course, that he had made a rather large mistake.

He was soft. Potema was beginning to realize that. He had not the stomach for death, too preoccupied with who a dead person was. He could not be an assassin. Could he even be a Dark Brother? She needed to get that softness out of his head, and soon. I do not know, She answered, It does not matter; they are dead,

He blinked, but showed no other reaction. She was calloused, at best. They all were. And he thought that they were very likely to be much, much worst than that. "But they were someone, once." He said softly, looking to her and unsure if she had heard him. "Why is it that you wear the red paw on your shoulder? Nemesis, and Damien and Cicero, too." He asked instead. For if he were unable to receive any answers regarding the head, he would attempt to answer his other questions.

She had grown with death. Mother had introduced it to them early in life, enforcing that they would die, all of them. There was no going around it. She had long accepted her death, and the death of others (though it did not make their passing any less painful), and was especially callous towards it. Especially with those she did not know. My mother was someone once, and yet her skull now adorns the Redgrove and her pelvis is a conduit in the Temple, The sting still hit her heart, but it was like passing through thorns; tiny bites rather than slashes. The spirit of that wolf is somewhere now, gone from its body. There is nothing I can do about it; nothing you can do. They are dead,

She was amazed that she had not told him about the Dark Brotherhood sooner, but he asked now, and she would give her answer. There are those who worship Mephala, and there are those who impart her will to the world; those are the Dark Brotherhood, She recalled what her mother had explained to them about the Brotherhood, what their purpose was; they were not just some blood-loving cult (though it felt like it sometimes). Brother Kove and I are priests; we use magic and herbs to protect our own and harm those who are against us. My brother Cicero is a spy; he gathers information, of any kind, and uses it to our advantage. Sister Nemesis and Damien are assassins; they kill and torture our enemies.[/q] She turned to the mark then, recalling when they had earned it. [q]Nothing can be taken without sacrifice; something of equivalence must be given. In order for one to earn their place in the Brotherhood, they must offer up another's life. That is why the mark is red; when we first receive it, it is made out of blood,

Her reply made an odd sort of sense, though he still felt that something was wrong about displaying a head like a trophy. Still, he did not question it further, instead listening keenly as she spoke, the words semi-familiar; perhaps she had spoken of this before, though he did not recall. Yet the explanation affected greatly the thoughts that swirled within his head, and he felt something with near finalty. 

This is was not the place for him. He was no priest, no spy, and certainly not a torturer or murder of any kind. The thought had him feel an odd sort of calm, and though he did not reveille his thoughts, he did not do anything other than say, "I see. Thank you, Potema. I will leave you rest, now" he said softly, bowing his head in respect and not allowing a single emotion except for calm respect to she on his face as he smiled softly at her, then turned and vanished back into the wood.