Golden Glade brush strokes on a canvas of souls

Quixote confirmed it and abruptly, Phoebe felt uncertainty arise deep in her. It was a vice grip constricting, a nauseating sensation that she couldn't quite describe, let alone know how to quell. Was it residual excitement with nowhere to go? Existential dread that none of them were officially the babies? She tensed, unable to hide the discomfort that broiled beneath her skin.

There was a run down of who had what, but Phoebe did not hear it.

It did not dissipate when her mother invited them either and hastily, her gaze settled on Vasa.

"You go first," she said lowly, whisper-like akin to a hissing snake. Vasa was the bravest of them, at least by her assessments, and maybe it was what she got for being the last one there. She could be the first to step into that gaping maw of a whelping den, to be smothered by... whatever was within. Their siblings. Whatever they did. Her own memory of such a time was rather absent, and disturbingly so.

"Go," she said then, moving to nudge her sister forward.

She'd do the same to Owen, if she got the chance.