It is a late night, and Silver winds around the copses and thickets like nobody’s business. Gleam and Shimmer stay fast by her side, the wasp content to ride on the pangolin’s scaled back as they walk along towards their eventual destination. They are both quiet; so mercifully, wonderfully quiet. No complaints about the long-winded, turning, tearing route that she takes them through, to avoid catching her fur on something-or-another. No, nothing seems to faze the two of them. And, she supposes, Even if they were ones to complain, they long-since would have stopped complaining. I do suppose I do this with alarming regularity. She stops, as she sees a wall of trees and brambles blocking her way on all four sides. “Oh, how wonderful,” she comments acerbically to the cold night air. Sometimes, just sometimes, there is a way to be found through these stands of brambles, if you only just look from just the right angle. “Glint, Glimmer, if you wouldn’t mind?” She asks her companions. The wasp flies obediently off of the pangolin’s back as it sits up, and watches it’s night-colored companion walk about the circle. The silver-colored doe sits down, inspecting her fur in a moment’s privacy as she lets her two scope out any possible way to continue on from this point.
What they do find, however, is far more interesting indeed.
She stares down at the small sac, all by itself, looking vulnerable as it is, slung between two branches like that. “It’ll never find food in the middle of this mess,” she remarks, almost pityingly, as Glint buzzes inquisitively around the developing foal. She examines the sac, attached as it is to two relatively sturdy-looking trees, all alone in this sheltered little clearing.
A quick look around determines that it had long-since been abandoned - it looks as though it was just left behind, like most kin tend to do. The doe herself couldn't fathom it; leaving one's offspring to the will of the elements, without taking a care to watch after their well-being. And, she supposes, with the weather being so cold and barren, that this little thing will need as much help as it can get. "Okay, you two..." she starts, turning to her steadfast companions. She looks around, until she finds a vine to drag out in front of them. "Find. Fetch," she instructs him, grabbing a branch in her mouth to draw out her plan. Just a sled. I've made them before.
What they do find, however, is far more interesting indeed.
She stares down at the small sac, all by itself, looking vulnerable as it is, slung between two branches like that. “It’ll never find food in the middle of this mess,” she remarks, almost pityingly, as Glint buzzes inquisitively around the developing foal. She examines the sac, attached as it is to two relatively sturdy-looking trees, all alone in this sheltered little clearing.
A quick look around determines that it had long-since been abandoned - it looks as though it was just left behind, like most kin tend to do. The doe herself couldn't fathom it; leaving one's offspring to the will of the elements, without taking a care to watch after their well-being. And, she supposes, with the weather being so cold and barren, that this little thing will need as much help as it can get. "Okay, you two..." she starts, turning to her steadfast companions. She looks around, until she finds a vine to drag out in front of them. "Find. Fetch," she instructs him, grabbing a branch in her mouth to draw out her plan. Just a sled. I've made them before.
In fact the foal is not alone, though no one would be able to tell. Fish Bones, in his foxbun form, had been watching the tiny unhatched Kimeti. Now hidden in the underbrush he watches the silver doe, to see if she'll need assistance moving the baby. Before the doe is done, Fish Bones has a sense of what she intends. Scurrying off he starts to look for the materials.
Snuggled tightly in his sac, Seashell is vaguely aware of new sounds. Words penetrate his dream, not enough to make him fully aware of them, but enough to bring up flashes of ancient, ancestral memories. The voice comforts him and Seashell relaxes a bit in his slumber. One day soon he'll be out in that world called Matope, and then he'll be able to hear the voice fully and understand what it is saying.
Making the shift always feels weird his body stretching and contorting to fit a new shape, but it's not unpleasant and Fish Bones has grown used to it. Now in his Kimeti form, Fish Bones steps out onto the path. He approaches Silver and clears his throat. "Need some help?" His voice sounds a little rusty, indicating he hasn't used it much recently.