[M] i'm made of plastic parts and wires
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WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised. +10

Yay for birth, I guess? >.> It's a poor post, but w/e. It gets the point across. Early morning to early afternoon. Cernunnos Winters, Priest de le Poer and Vermilion (Massacre) Ulrich.

Pain was not an unusual experience. In the years that had passed since her birth, pain had been a main course to a long dinner of heavy disappointment. Of course, it was often metaphorical pain — as the sun came up over the forest of Nod, a very real pain settled in its place. Since the return from her meeting with the golden collie, she'd known something was wrong — or she'd made a very firm assumption of it. Instead of seeking out Enkiel, she'd holed herself up inside of her den, away from the world and away from her family.

The discomfort was familiar, and disheartening. Still, she knew what to expect. A stifled whimper came with a cramping pressure just below her abdomen, bringing the princess to the ground — the experience of birth was wholly different than it had been before, with the deceased litter fathered by her new mate. Those had been small, like their father. As another bout of fighting pressure built, she realized her fears. Silence overtook her. Fragile fingers scrambled to drag the worn quilt she'd draped over her makeshift bed closer.

And then it was done. A final strain on her lower body and the stressful bundle of wet fur and amniotic material passed from its mother to the quilt she'd so carefully positioned. With no one present, crimson eyes were allowed to bleed her panic. Fingers tore at the dark bubble around the newborn, quilt used to clean away what was left, revealing one living child. Disappointment filled her. An oversized boy, with dark fur and the clear mottled pattern of a now dead lover who's eyes watched her from the wall of her den. It squirmed on the cool blanket. An autumn hand covered her jaws. She'd failed, and now was left at the mercy of her father.

Her lament was short lived as the straining pressure started again, taking her mind away from the reality of the situation as she continued the unfinished process. As the minutes passed, turning into hours, her strength lessened. Her energy emptied. By the end, she was exhausted, allowing herself to curl slightly on top of the blanket as three living, breathing, warm children snuggled and whined and fed. Three, with three more lifeless in the background. That was where her eyes fixed. Three cold bodies, harkening back to the time before. Oh, it had been different, but the results were the same. Another mottled, doggish monster alongside two smaller, paler creatures. Not unlike the living three — she allowed her eyes to wander back to her progeny, studying the colors and shapes of each.

The largest was clear, set apart from the rest of his living siblings by a seperate father with tainted lineage. There would be no place for him as he grew. He was in danger. Cotl's words had been clear, and though she did not fear him, it was so easy to kill an infant. She wondered if the others would be any safer: one dark, chocolate pelt and another so...average, bearing the reddish hints of her Lykoi heritage. None looked like her mate, not truly, but it was only the first that made it so clear, the younger two wrapped in secrets that she refused to reveal during her lifetime.

Names, didn't all children need names? Myron had helped her read the books about Morrigan, the legends that surrounded that culture, and that was where she wanted to name the lone Winters child from. Caillen deserved that much, a name that represented what she believed him to be. The silver stag solidified it. The doggish boy, the only child, would be Cernunnos, named for the Horned-God of the Celtic forests. Named for his father. A Winters. That was easy enough, unlike the two coyote pups. Gabriel had named his children for the three families that pulsed through their veins, but she was not so willing. The dark boy, so strange in contrast to his family members, was the first of her father's grandchildren who would remain within her home. He would not be shunned. He belonged. A de le Poer, like his mother.

Further inspection showed the most peculiar marking. Between his eyes, extending from the top of his head to a place beneath the dark stripe of his nose was the distinct black lines of what she knew to be her father's religious icon. For a moment, she rubbed at the darker fur, but it didn't come away. A cross. Surprise colored her face — was God forgiving her finally, through her son? It was so much to hope for, yet she focused on the idea rather than allow it to slip away. "Priest." A single word, whispered into the air and made from vain attempts to believe she could be saved. Priest, a son for her and grandchild for her father, one she would not allow to be damned by Inferni.

His sister was more difficult to choose for. She knew, in the back of her head she knew, what name the girl deserved to have. She would honor the secret in the most trivial of ways, a name that would seem normal, but she wondered quietly if there should be a different one. Cotl, who had dutifully believed them to be his children, deserved some credit for his attempt. She had used him then, did he deserve retribution? Yes. A sigh was expelled from her lungs as she watched the only girl for several minutes. She would be an Ulrich, if not by blood then by name, christened with the name of a color she'd seen so much within the Kingdom. Vermilion. Red. Scarlet. The color of flawed eyes and brutal death, shown in her pelt. A Massacre in third name only. Vermilion Ulrich. Vermilion Massacre Ulrich. Such a long name for such a small child.

With exhaustion came a desire to rest, and as soon as she ensured the pups were a healthy lot, she allowed her eyes to close. The rest would be dealt with. They would still be there when her consciousness returned. For now, it was time to regain the energy taken from her, to prepare for the fight that would soon enough come to blows between herself and the men around her.

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