Eris is by me!

Molcaxitl ran the bone-carved comb though Eris's mane as gently as she could, but still, the comb snatched on her fur and knots, causing the sable-hued woman to give a sharp bark of pain each time it occurred. She rarely grumbled to Molcaxitl to be more gentle, however; Eris was aware the pain she suffered when she made the slave-girl brush out her coat was her own fault. If only she subjected herself to it more frequently, there would not be so many knots to work through. The dark woman could hardly stand the process more than once every other week, however, and her mane frequently knotted and became too tangled to even brush through. This was why Molcaxitl also had a sharp-edged razor next to her on the ground.

Some might not trust their slaves with such dangerous implements, and while Eris would never make a gift of such a weapon to Molcaxitl, she was comfortable enough allowing to use them while Eris herself was present. She would never have trusted Darijus with such a thing, but she had seen the slave at his worst. Molcaxitl had never so much as roused a whisper against her dark-furred master's command, and Eris had deeper understanding of the slave-girl's beliefs. She encouraged them, though she did so privately and within her own home, sometimes allowing Molca further participation in ritual than most slaves in Eterne saw within an entire lifetime.

The dark woman's arms held a small kitten, though the little girl was already larger than she had been when Eris picked her off the streets in Halifax. The lucky little thing had been able to exist on more than just sheep's milk -- as Eris was still producing, having fed Ataxia and her siblings and then Engima, the kitten ate like royalty -- literally, too. Whatever lingering feralness had existed in the kitten was falling away quickly, and the little thing looked up at Eris with intelligent blue eyes, mewling softly. The hybrid grinned down at her kitten, stroking it on the forehead. It purred loudly and nuzzled into her fur, little paws kneading against her chest.

She would train the kitten as best she could. With the assistance of Molcaxitl and Salvia, this would be an easier task than if she faced it alone. The cat would probably never be as loyal or as well-trained as Itzcitla, but perhaps the ocelot could set an example for his lynx sister, if Eris allowed the pair enough time together. Itzcitla could teach her to be a cat. Unfortunately for the little yet-nameless lynx, it was likely she would face the same muteness that plagued Itzcitla: an apparent inability to communicate. Itzcitla spoke only in mewls, growls, and cat noises Eris did not understand. Someone had broken his speech, or maybe he'd never learned it in the first place. Without a feline educator in language, her lynx kitten was likely to suffer the same fate. This was quite alright by the dark-hued woman, however, who found that she preferred silent companions to those who chattered excessively.

I'm sorry, mistress, the girl murmured in her thick accent as she brushed through another knot. Her English had improved remarkably since washing ashore on Anathema's beach, and even more so since the tawny coy-dog had begun interacting and speaking with Salvia, teaching her Spanish as Molca herself learned English, her new native tongue. Eris dismissed the apology with a flourish of her hand, placing one hand on her belly, which shifted and rolled as if she were nauseous. No nausea coursed through her, however, and she found the motion odd, frowning and folding her ears against her head. What trouble, mistress? Molca asked, pulling the comb through a less troublesome knot. Eris's lip still lifted in pain, and she shook her head.

Nothing, just a little unsettled, she offered, and tilted her head backward. Make it short again, she requested, and the slave did as she was told. Eris felt a lightness in her head, and a few moments later, she heard the razor set against the earth again. There were a few more strokes of the comb, each mercifully free of knot, and that was all. Reaching for her little mirror, the dark woman picked it up and inspected the coy-dog's work, shaking her head free of still-clinging shorn hairs, and she grinned widely, nodding her approval. Very good, very good, she murmured, though it was not the only thanks Molca received -- Eris made sure she was well-fed, after all, didn't she?

A voice called for the dark woman's attention, and she stood, sniffing at the air. The scent was unrecognizable and heavily laced with mint. The woman took a step toward the frame of rock that served as her doorway. Sandalio perched overhead, regarding her with brilliantly golden-yellow eyes. The owl, of course, hadn't made a sound with the stranger's approach. He was not that sort of pet. The coyote smiled toward Hrafn and nodded turning back toward Molcaxitl for a moment. Leave us, the Auxiliary commanded the sprat, extending the scruffed kitten to her slave. Molcaxitl extended her hands to take the kitten and departed immediately, ducking past Hrafn with her head lowered in greeting, though she dared not speak to the ranked man unless he greeted her first.

What might I do for you this evening, Hrafn? the dark woman inquired warmly, finding the interruption pleasurable rather than irritating, as was typical with members of her pack. Associate or not, Hrafn had proven himself useful to the pack already, and this had not escaped the dark woman's notice. He would find himself among their elite, as would any who entered Salsola with a mind to better the pack. Eris had begun this place of selfish desire, true enough, but her feelings had deepened and changed to genuine love of Salsola. She knew what good the pack did for her, and in return, she would do all within her power to ensure the pack's improvement.

(--)

Eris is by Kiri!

Molcaxitl scrambled off with Omitl in her arms, and Eris stepped back to invite Hrafn into her home. She did not mind entertaining guests in this part of her ruins; the underground den dug at the rear part of the stone structure was her own home, reserved for her children alone, but this part was quite suitable for friends and packmates to see. She frowned at the locks of dark hair still scattered on the ground, shaking her head and uttering a low growl beneath her breath. Pardon the mess; it seems Molcaxitl does not know how to clean up after herself, the woman said, sniffing as she indicated the remnants of her haircut with a dismissive motion of her hand.

Her interest in Hrafn's offering showed, though she did not move to supply the word he sought, thinking it might be rude to interrupt him. Instead, she beamed encouragement at him, watching with increasing excitement as he revealed to her this gift. She could not keep her jaws from parting in an expression of surprise at the loveliness unsheathed there before her; the dark woman spent a long moment simply peering at the dark wood and its white swirl, regarding it with a look of utmost admiration and fascination. Oh, dearest Hrafn, she started at long last, her chartreuse gaze forced from the bow to the chocolate-furred countenance of her packmate. It's lovely.

I will call her Strife, for that is what she will bring to my enemies, the woman declared, reaching out to take the bow with fingers very near to trembling.