Golden Glade brush strokes on a canvas of souls

The amused half-smile fell off Owen's face as his observation of two quarreling squirrels chasing each other up and down and around first one trunk and then another was suddenly interrupted by his mother's howl. He clammed up, glancing about uncertainly, his tail tucking itself against his rump as his muscles all stiffened at once and his face assumed the more-usual pensive mask of apprehension that it so particularly liked to wear. His brow was furrowed and his mouth held a hint of a pout as after a long few minutes of hesitation he began to slowly move toward the den where he knew his mother had set up camp.

His paws stuttered and stammered along the way, several times starting to turn aside. His flickering ears began to pick up the plaintive noises of his newest and youngest siblings as he crept a bit closer and then stopped. Just as he had just about almost made up his mind to turn aside and visit another day—Mom needed time to rest, after all, right? And the little ones too, most likely, heck he'd probably be doing them all a favor—his father's voice rang out, and Owen squinted up ahead to see Qui's dark form just barely discernable against the dark mouth of the birthing den. Owen sighed heavily, and then continued to pick his way forward. He was a little disturbed to see how wildly Quixote's tail was wagging: he didn't remember ever seeing this much excitement in his father over anything before. Or his mother, for that matter, as he folded his ears back and peeked deeper inside after a quick, silent, - Hello. ...I'm here. -

And—Oh, um, hi Phoebe, he added, a little surprised to find her already here as well. ...Whaddaya think? If he'd been thinking a little more clearly, perhaps he would have realized that there was no earthly reason his sister should have any more of a clue what to think or do here than he himself did. Cautiously Owen stretched out his nose and sniffed—okay, so these siblings were almost certainly going to have difficulty pulling an Elfie on his poor battered snout, but as always he figured it was better to be safe than sorry, right?—and then his eyes involuntarily widened, as he caught his first glimpse of the tiniest and newest Redhawk-Voulges. The first to be born here, as Frosthawks. ...That thought really didn't settle well into the pit of Owen's suddenly churning stomach. Hi Mom, he managed to blurt with a rather squeaky voice of his own, at a loss for what else to say even as it belatedly occurred to him that perhaps she hadn't seen his bit of ptero, here in the dim recesses of the cave and preoccupied with her fresh brood.