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Brightling's efforts are finally rewarded, as she breaks into a surprisingly large hollow inside the tree's wall, and three pink, blind, hairless little pups of some sort are revealed in all their delectable vulnerability. Even their bodies look rather martes-like, but surely not even newborn martes-pups are this small?

The pups flounder about uncertainly as the warmth of their nest if disturbed, and squeak even louder now.

Brightling tilted her head first one way, then the next, investigating the tiny, crying things. In reality, the little ugly creatures certainly seemed like snack material. Brightling definitely lacked qualms about eating things, for the most part. But, at the same time...they were rather small. If she ate one, then the odds were good that she’d only end up hungrier than she was now. After all, one was barely a snack. Brightling cheeped in irritation, and then looked at Featherflit. The fledgling seemed a bit perplexed.

"Eh," she said noncommittally, watching the things squirm with some minor disaste. She had seen ugly just-hatched fluffs before, but at least they had beaks and didn't look....in reality, she was torn between curious, repulsed, and hungry.

"Look a bit like martes, little ones," she observed, leaning down and gently turning one over with her beak. The noise it made was a little bit sad. "Such tiny little blighters," she said after thoughtful contemplation, pushing all three of the pups together and considering them. It was rather cold, and she wasn't sure she wanted the things to die. She wondered what they were. Certainly, she had never seen anything of the sort. "We could eat them," she suggested, "but they really wouldn't be more than a gulp. A waste, if you ask me."

She wished she had some sort of a pack like the gatherers carried. It would make things so much easier. Of course, if the storm's lull receded into good weather again, she could always just carry them in her talons, maybe one in her beak. She had the thongs from her bells, too; it was possible she could rig some sort of harness.

But that was doubtful. She was no crafter. "Wonder what they are," she said out loud.

Brightling, barely more than a fledgling in form and certainly only a fledgling at heart, couldn’t help but empathize with Featherflit’s enthusiasm. Laughing appreciatively, she bobbed her head in a nod at the fledgling. "That would be something, wouldn't it?" she said with a smile. "What a lucky little Sentinel you would be." Something about the look in her eyes suggested that Featherflit would never become a Minder, so her enthusiasm was obviously of a different nature. Brightling chuckled again at this and fluffed her feathers. She supposed the little beasties would have to be kept warm, and warmth was something that all Sentinels knew how to provide.

Swallowing her distaste of the things, she scooted closer to the them and settled down so her feathers and body heat encompassed the...pups, she supposed she'd call them. And while it felt odd to be brooding something so unnatural, she couldn't complain. It would make the fledgling so happy if the things didn't die. So she'd try to keep them from dying.

In the new lull of the storm, a faint scrabbling sound can be heard, as if of small claws against rough bark, but they very suddenly fall quiet. In their place, a faint hissing sound can be heard, that rises slowly to a clearly distinguishable, drawn-out mewling growl.

There seems to be something outside the hollow, and it's not happy...

The confrontation is interrupted before it even begins, as a sudden flurry of lightning strikes light up the little hollow. the snarling immediately stops and disappears in the ensuing cacophony of thunderclaps.

When the mayhem finally stops the storm seems to have spent most of its energy. It doesn't rain quite as much anymore. Is it over? No... Not quite. An even louder noise fills the air.