[M] the flower in a desert sea.
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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.





(1119)
Set for 29 December.



Eris is by Kiri!

The dark woman had been settled into her cave, her younger daughters sleeping. Artemisia and Ataxia curled at her right side, while Harrow curled at her other side. The coyote had an arm wrapped around the dark gray child at her left, her right arm leaned against Artemisia's shoulder while it propped open a book. Eris was not much of a reader; she was struggling through the tome at hand, despite its simplistic phrasing and brief, notation style.

Eris felt the queer shifting in her belly, the same thing she had been experiencing the last few weeks. It made her nervous -- the dark-hued woman thought perhaps her bowels were going sour, perhaps some rot beginning to overtake her innards. She was not as young as she used to be, and she, too, would face death someday, passing into the otherworld as she did. Perhaps it was this. The woman froze as a twisting pain gripped at her belly, and she whimpered softly, careful not to wake her sleeping girls.

The pain was new, and she gritted her teeth as it gripped at her stomach. For a moment, the dark woman thought she would faint with the pain, but as quickly as it had come, it was gone again, leaving only that insistent shifting in her belly. Now, the hybrid shifted herself forward, wriggling out from between her daughters. Ataxia lifted a sleepy face and turned bleary eyes on her mother, but the hybrid woman put her finger to her lips and then petted the youngster's face, hoping the terror on her face was concealed.

The coyote woman writhed out into the more open area of her den, and she realized there was immense dampness between her legs, coating her thighs. Another pain gripped her, and Eris realized what this was. There had been no signs other than the weight gain, and what she had taken for movement deep in her bowels. She was pregnant, and this was happening. She had experienced this twice before, and she could curse herself for having failed to recognize it this time.

Molcaxitl, the dark woman rasped, holding her stomach. She could feel movement beneath it, and she knew these children could not wait. Molca! she barked, more sharply now. The yellowish coyote appeared in the doorframe, rubbing a sleepy eye. When she saw her master's position, splayed across the ground of the ruin Eris called home, the tiredness leapt from her face, and the tawny coyote came forward, kneeling beside Eris and placing a hand on her belly. Wide-eyed, the coyote turned to her mistress, bowing her head down and averting her eyes.

A child, the woman said, her thickly accented voice choked. One. Or two -- if more, then they are too early, miss, the woman said, sweeping her big ears back. The hybrid understood what the woman said, and a shiver of fear ran up her spine. If this was a litter of puppies, they were too early to survive. The dark woman's own ears swept back, and she moved to the wall of the ruins, Molca assisting her. Who should I fetch? the tawny slave asked, knowing Larkspur was far south in Freetown.

The dark hybrid shook her head and gritted her teeth as another pain wracked her. Too fast, she grunted, gripping at the slave's arm. They come now, she said, inhaling a deep breath with surprising sharpness. She pushed hard against that breath, and felt the movement in her belly shift further downward. The pain faded, but another brewed on the cusp of it as unbearable tightness began in her lower body. Molca seemed to understand what the dark hybrid meant, for she repositioned herself between The Auxiliary's legs, frightened reddish eyes peering down on the woman's belly. Molca did not know where else to look; she did not like watching the birth, but neither did she wish to peer into her mistress's face.

Eris gave a sharp yelp, and breathed deeply, again pushing against that breath. She felt the motion shift further southward. Molca said something, but it did not register within the sable hybrid's mind. The pain was the only thing left for her, twisting and squeezing in her belly and now so much lower. The coyote gave a cry and shoved herself against the pain, arching her hips against it. Surprisingly strong hands held her hips down again -- Molca. She again spoke, but Eris's ability to comprehend speech had left her entirely, and the woman only bared her pearly teeth further.

There was a feeling of sliding, and the coyote thought her innards must be coiling out of her, landing on the ground between her legs in wet splats. Her chest heaved, and she whimpered with the immense ache in her nethers and the sudden, crippling exhaustion. The faint sound of whimpering reached her ears, and the woman held her hands out breathlessly. Molca brought forward a single puppy, tiny and with perfectly pale fur. He whimpered and struggled in her hands, lively and large. Though he was no doubt premature, the coyote thought he would live. Her chartreuse eyes flicked to her slave, and a faint smile crossed the coyote's muzzle, a rare thing for the slave to receive. Tea and water, she requested, and her attention returned to her perfectly white son.

Basilaris, she whispered, as soon as the slave girl had departed. Basilaris Eternity, your name, the coyote said, clutching the small form to her breast. He took the nipple eagerly. Eris had never ceased lactating, having fed straight Engima directly after Artemisia, Ataxia, and Harrow. The coyote wondered if her daughters still slept, and twisted her head to see Ataxia standing in the doorway, wide-eyed. Go back to sleep, dearest. Mother is fine, she said, and the girl retreated, though fear still showed plainly on her face.

Eris sat up slowly, wincing as she did so, and reached for the placenta that had come after Basilaris. He was still dabbled with pink and red, but the hybrid's finger brushed against the bloody afterbirth all the same. She wiped that streak of blood across his forehead, vertical against his eyes. He squirmed, but did not protest, as he was too engaged in feeding from her. The coyote smiled down at her little son, her tail twitching in faint happiness as she did so. She would give him his feed and then eat herself, consuming the rich leavings of her own body for its nutrients. But first, Basilaris must eat. She would see him to strong, and she would protect him with the fierceness required to keep him alive.

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