Skye sat in the middle of the grassy clearings near the Flanders Fields, to the very north of their territory. She looked down at her stomach, uncovered entirely save for the belt on her waist that held her dagger. Her stomach wasn't showing as much as she thought it would - she was barely inebriated at all. She wondered if it was a small litter, small pups, or both - either way, she was glad that it wasn't very detectable, although someone could probably tell from the chubbiness that she had put on that was certainly not there before.
She didn't want to harm her knife that she painstakingly took care of to sharpen and keep clean - rather, she brought another one from her home, dirty and dull, to create art with. Little did she create art anymore, so she took the knife she had in her hand and began to carve intricate lines and curls into a dead log on the ground.
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