409 omg omg omg omg. 8B
Eris is by Alaine!
The dark-hued woman often wondered what Basilaris might look like. He'd be almost grown now, shifting already. She needed only look at her grown children and imagine. He would not be as strongly built as Pandemic or even Artemisia, the thickest and strongest of her daughters. Neither would be possess the slim, scant hints of coyote present in Wretch. His pale fur would have remained pale -- or so, she thought. Ataxia had begun her life nearly as dark as Harrow and Eris herself, but adulthood brought her to a silver-gray shade. Larkspur had almost certainly been wholly black, once upon a time. Even in her age, Eris lost none of the coal-hued sheen of her fur. She could not have known such, but it was the dog's blood inherited from her mother which kept it so ink-colored and free of paler patches.
Shifting the bag on her hip, she thought idly of its contents as she made her way slowly, sniffing after Harrow. It was uncertain just where the dark-hued daughter had chosen as her home, and Eris once more regretted -- although not overmuch -- her present situation. Things would be so much better once she and Pandemic were in the open and frank with their love. Skulking and slinking was, for the moment, a necessary evil. There was always Salvia to think about, which Eris had attempted -- and failed, for the most part -- to avoid considering entirely. She had stolen Pandemic, taken him right from Salvia's home, even -- and neither would either of them turn back. There was none of that; it was far too late.
Before long, there was the faint scent of her daughter, carried by an errant bay breeze that blew in an uncharacteristic direction. The hybrid quickened her step and grinned at the young woman's voice, the name she loved to hear above all others. "Mama" was better than even her own name, the one she'd chosen for herself out of respect and reclamation of her father's heritage. Harrow, she said, moving the bag behind her and reaching out to deliver first the customary Salsolian greeting and then a more motherly hug, looping both arms around Harrow. She felt for the second time, and with no less disquiet, the thinness of her left arm, and restrained the question from her muzzle. Where are you staying? I've brought things for you, the hybrid offered.
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