6 January 2023, 11:35 PM
(This post was last modified: 6 January 2023, 11:36 PM by Jonk. Edited 1 time in total.)
OOC: Backdated to late December.
Jonk winced and curled his arms around his head. He was able to distinguish his pups’ joyous screams by shrillness alone. That one, as evidenced by the pounding of his skull, was Smokescreen’s. They were good children, of course they were, but did they have to be so loud directly above his head? He had a splitting headache, and it was making him a terrible host.
Not that Thread seemed to mind. The wolf seemed content to keep him company as Marten bounded across the den site, playing chase with Jonk’s pups like she was their peer. Which, the golden prince supposed, she was — just an older one. The youth of New Caledonia so frequently separated themselves into children and adults that he’d almost forgotten what adolescence was supposed to look like; a roving pack of troublemaking pups who knew they weren’t ready for adulthood just yet.
He missed it. Smoketrail was talking about joining Del Cenere in the spring, for Horse Mother’s sake!
Jonk hoped that Woodsmoke and Kohl were having better luck preparing “den dinner,” the latter having brought an entire squash to cook down into a hearty hare stew. He wished he could meet the group’s resident agriculturist — Quincy became an anxious recluse once a moon, apparently — but his produce was just as tasty without his presence.
Another yell — Wojo’s this time — pierced Jonk’s skull like an arrowhead. Groaning into his forearms, he squinted at Thread through the gloom of his den. ”I imagine you’re hoping for at least six pups, then?” Jonk asked, smiling through the pain. Kohl and Marten certainly seemed excited for such a thing, having spent much of the afternoon trying to tire out his eight-strong brood.
Jonk winced and curled his arms around his head. He was able to distinguish his pups’ joyous screams by shrillness alone. That one, as evidenced by the pounding of his skull, was Smokescreen’s. They were good children, of course they were, but did they have to be so loud directly above his head? He had a splitting headache, and it was making him a terrible host.
Not that Thread seemed to mind. The wolf seemed content to keep him company as Marten bounded across the den site, playing chase with Jonk’s pups like she was their peer. Which, the golden prince supposed, she was — just an older one. The youth of New Caledonia so frequently separated themselves into children and adults that he’d almost forgotten what adolescence was supposed to look like; a roving pack of troublemaking pups who knew they weren’t ready for adulthood just yet.
He missed it. Smoketrail was talking about joining Del Cenere in the spring, for Horse Mother’s sake!
Jonk hoped that Woodsmoke and Kohl were having better luck preparing “den dinner,” the latter having brought an entire squash to cook down into a hearty hare stew. He wished he could meet the group’s resident agriculturist — Quincy became an anxious recluse once a moon, apparently — but his produce was just as tasty without his presence.
Another yell — Wojo’s this time — pierced Jonk’s skull like an arrowhead. Groaning into his forearms, he squinted at Thread through the gloom of his den. ”I imagine you’re hoping for at least six pups, then?” Jonk asked, smiling through the pain. Kohl and Marten certainly seemed excited for such a thing, having spent much of the afternoon trying to tire out his eight-strong brood.
