Sawtooth Spire Singing Oh my lord, she'll be the death of me

She was placated somewhat by the way Ainhoa crouched, enough to openly scoff rather than snarl when the newcomer spoke again. Oh, Wintersbane had said so, had he? Wylla would need to have a chat with her fellow Eisen sometime about the value of respecting someone else's privacy. Her pregnancy wasn't exactly a secret, but she didn't approve of telling every bright-eyed newcomer such things. You never knew when one of them secretly had nefarious intentions.

The midwife? She swept a critical eye over Ainhoa. She wasn't a bad looking she-wolf, a soft shade of brown that complemented both the white and black banding across her shoulders. Seemingly demure and eager to help. The problem wasn't Ainhoa, though. The problem was that Wylla was a notoriously difficult wolf to get along with, and that was especially true where other women were concerned, and she often didn't beat around the bush or make things easy for those who sought her company.

Mahler is the midwife. He will remain the midwife for the pregnant women here, myself included. You're just a thrall. You don't get to claim such titles until you've actually proven yourself worthy of them.