Sun Mote Copse Your body is a wonderland

The smell of fresh game made her nose twitch. She gazed expectantly to her right, her tail thumping a hollow tattoo on the damp wooden floor as Niamh appeared, towing a sizable pheasant. Ignoring the faint twinge in her breast—the sight reminded her of her eldest son—Wildfire carefully rose to all fours to greet the visitor. She stretched forward to accept the proffered lick, tail waving slowly now, making wispy noises against either side of her new abode that sort of matched the rhythm of the stirrings inside her.

"I'm feeling pretty good, thanks," the Sovereign reported, setting a paw on the dead bird as she spoke the last word. She was glad for a visitor, regardless of gifts. In a few days' time, she might grow more territorial of this new space. But those particular instincts hadn't woken yet and she was happy to share her freshly picked whelping den. "I just found this. I plan to use it as my den. I've always given birth in a tree," she mused.

"How about you? How're you?" she asked in the next beat, chestnut eyes settling on Niamh's appreciably fair features.