He had found the scent of birth thick in his nose while starting down to rest, but upon that detection, Solitaire had gone to his collection of plants and sorted out what might be needed if the birthing had been a difficult one. He remembers the ones within the vagabond group, and sometimes terrible things had befallen the mothers or their children during such a time. He recalls what had been used and for what as he stuffs plants and herbs into the hollowed log, just in case they might be needed at a moment's notice. He would not fail his pack and those within it by not being there if his skills were needed.

So he grasped the branch part of the log and pulled it along behind him as he started towards the scent, the pungent smell growing stronger with every step he took. All thoughts of sleep were pushed from his mind as he moved -- noting that from all the time spent gathering the collection of plants and such, of carrying the log -- had helped strengthen his muscles and it was not quite the same difficulty in which he had pulled the log with before. It was paying off in that way, at least, to re-learn all of the things he had seen being done, the plants and what they were used for. Finding them again.

Of course the call comes while he is in mid-stride to the den that smells of so much blood and birthing fluids, and Solitaire moves faster until he is at the lip of the den. The light was enough to peer in, sort of, and he pauses there, releases the log so he could speak. "Is everything alright? I've brought plants, herbs, in case any of them are needed. Just let me know where any aches or pains are, and I can send the right stuff down." He called out gently, not wanting to disturb the young ones who he could hear from here. They sounded healthy enough, at least. And like a big litter, if his ears were not mistaken.

[ male ] [ seven ] [ unmated ] [ imprint; striker ] [ glorall ]