Bearclaw Valley ghost of a monster child

her children were enraptured, demonstrating finely they were proud bearers of ursus' power and ilk. astara watched with pride, though her sharp gaze never once passed idly over merrick.

no matter how he acted today, there was still that lurking fear in astara's heart he might one day strike them down.

as both children neared (and one licked curiously at the violent garland of red pulsing from the stranger's flesh), astara's attention was stolen by the fleeing ico.

were she not laden with milk and the responsibility of those who drank it, she might have pursued him.

she might have coursed after him as if he were a fox and she the slavering hound -- might even, have then, made an example of him too --

her gaze darted back to merrick, to ascertain if he saw the limits of his fair accolyte's loyalty.

their vengeance would come another day. astara would not forget. not the scent, not the traitorous act -- not the fact they had supped and fed him for weeks only to have him desecrate a ceremony for her children.

a malignant stirring rose in astara as she watched ico leave.

watched, as skoll turned away too.

a hideous loathing filled her heart, that her children would not be received gloriously by their own packmates.

oh, would her teeth find these treacherous wolves later.