Haunted Wood spite

the wraith has come to rest in a gently sloping hollow, tongue lolling and sides heaving. all those instincts of motherhood have been ignored; she has not made any effort to nest, and now that the restlessness begins to increase, the woman grounds herself, steeling and revolting against instinct. pain wraps around her crown, her sides, and low, fevered growls cascade from her maw onto the wet earth. 

something calls through the wood, low and grating. it jolts the wraith from a stupor she did not know she'd entered, arching in on herself. blood on the earth, blood on her thighs; reaching, she grabs hold of something. the first. @Conquest is a swift remembrance of her hate, and though instinct is a firm guiding hand, her hate has always overwhelmed. another growl as the pain continues, seizing the bundle tightly and for a moment, swinging it from her jaws as she could prey. but the violence of the action is softened by that omnipresent instinct, and so she drops the bundle onto the earth, cleaning in roughly and without compassion. killing them, vanishing, had crossed her mind more than once, but she did not know herself capable, and had no doubts the pack would seek to punish her. 

there comes a second - no, a third. there is a second there already, in the dirt. this one is seized and dropped before her for prodding inspection, the first ignored now. this one, @Pestilenece, underwhelms. small, pale, wrong. again, cleaned roughly. the metallic taste of blood brings her pause. hers — the inside of her maw is raw and bitten — or the childs? the third is born. pestilence is pushed towards her sibling; @Famine has the unfortunate luck to roll close toward the woman's hind as she shifts. a kick sends him rolling. and then, before she can move to inspect the third; a shadow from betwixt her thighs. this one is within reach; he is pulled toward her and given the same treatment as the first two. but there is something wrong, off. this one does not stir. @Death casts a shadow over this one, and so she moves to retrieve the third. 

the birth sac is removed just as efficiently as it had been from the others, the rotund one placed at her chest. three — no, four. the ink-stained had found a teat; silently had it, with no help from her, begun to breathe. brow furrows, but the wraith accepts this. something else slides from her womb; but it is no living thing and so is disposed of just as quickly. tongue slides over her lips, the pain beginning finally to ebb. it is done.

Unaware of his misfortune, Famine drew his breath. The sac had been torn by the force of his mother's kick, the rest of it broken by eager paws. He propelled himself forward with purposeful thrusts. His jaws ached; his gums were sore — the boy needed to eat, and soon.

His lips cupped around something soft and familiar. Enjoying the sensation (the first of many), Famine continued the suckle. A tiny glutton, he ignored the lack of milk; whatever he had found, it was sufficient for his current purpose.

Teeth pulling at his scruff elicited a loud whine. Why did he have to go so soon? He continued to cry, even after latching onto his mother's teat and falling into a deep slumber.

The Reckoning had begun...

Mother's cruel grip held the boy as if he was a thing of the underworld, a wise decision - though feeble, weak and helpless still, the boy named so dastardly was not to be messed with. Effortlessly had he climbed his way to the world of the living, breathing and drinking on his own. From Mother's breast, salvation came and he lapped up his fair share - to strengthen, to grow. The spawn that had accompanied him, and would never truly leave his side, were accepted yet not appreciated - but the boy was too tired to care.

and so came the girl into the world that from its genesis was fated to object to her existence. mother's fangs found her, tore away all that had been warm and cool and familiar. the earth, wet, hunger, touch. it overwhelmed, and she cried her displeasure at all of it, until the sounds grew muffled by the teat in her maw and the thing grew swollen with milk. hind limb kicked up awkwardly, a twisted rendition of a scratch that would prove all too common in the days to come.

Pulsations began to force the bundle of flesh forward, further and further away from the soft comfort that had been swaddling her for the past months. Blind and def, she felt her way through as the cold began to close in around her. The air was brutal and cold but not anything she couldn't get use to - it was the crushing feeling that emprisoned her within seconds that forced a cry from her mute lips. Soft through barely formed vocals, panic as the pain grew.

Then it was over. The sting pulsated, but the pressure finally subsided. Seeking for any form of comfort, the sweet smell of milk encouraged the little red bundle to crawl forward and latch onto where the smell was eminating from. Though for now she felt fine, even through the ordeal, the added pain of birth - she would hold true to her name. Conquest - and embrace the pain, conquer it and make it her own. The first of the appolcalypse puppies was here, and she would not soon be forgotten.