Hildegund

Fortunately, pups don't take a lot of care, especially in the first few fortnights when their eyes aren't even open yet and they can't do much more than waddle and nurse. But that's also unfortunate, because tending the pups was the best part of Heriwulf's day.

Ljota didn't sleep. After Hildegund left, the skin-changer only stretched out her long legs and stared at her bedroom ceiling in the dark. She hadn't felt like starting a fire when she came in, and she certainly wasn't going to bother with it now.

There is something about having a litter of pups that lifts the spirits. Perhaps that's true for everyone, but if so, it may be more true for someone like Heriwulf, who spends so much of his life's energy on the care of hounds that their spirits influence his. In the past he'd always found this cheering up to be welcome, for he tended to be a serious and sometimes dour fellow, his eyes fixed on the pragmatic needs of the day, his heart darkened by the tragedies he'd seen and endured, his outlook tending towards the pessimistic. Or so people told him.

She awoke, shaking and gasping, her mind clouded from her dream. She sat up, pushing the furs aside, and comforted Fang. The hound cuddled and quieted while the woman considered her disturbed slumber.

She'd had similar dreams before, but they had been disquieting in a different way. The biggest way was in seeming impossible, but there had also been, perhaps because of that, an element of danger in feeling trapped by being held.

It only took one time making the long hike from Staddle to the lodge, carrying two bales of hay, for Heriwulf to conclude that there had to be another way. Bales of hay don't weigh very much; surely carrying two over the few miles through the Chetwood would be no great hardship, particularly if he had the whole day to do it, two bales at a time over several journeys?

"Come, Fang."

The hound broke off investigating the loam in case it had changed, and trotted after. The command was to come, and not heel or just being expected to follow along. That meant some sort of possible trouble. But it would be trouble for Mistress only, and not for a hound. His job would be to watch for other threats.

After a few weeks of being the nominal Chieftain of his tiny clan, Heriwulf still hadn't had a moment when the weight of that position fell upon him suddenly, startlingly, uncomfortably. On the contrary, he'd settled into that position quite easily, because it had really had very little effect on anything.

Kestrea spent quite a while in the woods – crouching and checking for tracks, following and stalking, over the last few days. Finally happening upon the Nen Harn, in the right moment and the right time. At first, observing from a distance and hiding, to see whether the woman was alone, but once that became obvious – she decided to approach. Openly, with the weapons sheathed.

He had come prepared: his three hounds, well-trained, fierce, and utterly loyal, were in place; his spear was strong and its iron point and cross-brace sharp; his position was well-chosen with both the advantage of height and several options for retreat and advance. Still, staring down a wolf charging at you is never a time to feel comfortable, no matter how much subtle lore of bird and beast your ancestors were taught by Radagast the Brown, no matter how many times you had faced wolves, no matter how many you had tamed and turned into members of your clan.