{ABRAXUS & KISKA | 14 | POSSESSES ELIJAH | IN DIVEEN}

She craved something. Blood? Flesh? Or both.

Her womb was ripe with the prospect of children so large and ready to burst forth into the world. A world that is unforgiving and relentless in its disappointments. It is this realm in which she has chosen to bring them into so that they may grow, learn, and thrive as self-reliant beings despite the conflicts of which this life deals to them. It is a cold-hearted bitch of a world and yet they must find a way to not only survive… but flourish.

Charcoal singed jaws thrust forth and claim the life of the heavily impregnated prairie creature. A shrill, chirping squeal is raised from its throat before it is severed, the voice of such being cut off for eternity. Her belly jostles roughly at the movement to catch the lumbering creature, yet despite her swollen sides she is still capable of caring for her own self. She knows that this time is unlike the others in which she has birthed – many take the place of where three was once the most she had carried at full term. She must sate theirs and her own need for tender sinew, muscle, and flesh. Slowly, she eases herself down into a reclined position as she peels the skin from the rodent-like beast, choosing to rend the forelimb from its joint so that she may open the ribs.

It is delicate work for one so large and yet it is enough to keep her content for a short while. The belly of the animal is much easier to get to as it is nearly as large as her own in proportion. Her front teeth pick at the skin until they grasp hold and she pulls back to rip it from the muscle and fat. Larger canines dig deeper to pull out the unborn pups of the deceased prey from their cavity before swallowing them down nearly whole. It is when she is finally picking her knives upon the bones of the carcass that the first surge of anguish overwhelms her entirely. It is not a foreign feeling and yet it is not very welcome all the same. With a disgruntled, and slightly pained, snarl she rises from her position to return toward her den site where the whelps may be born in safety from prying eyes.

Another pang wracks her body as she nears the entrance to the grove and she must stop to even her breaths before entering into the cavern within the wall. Immediately she finds comfort in the darkness of the familiar den, the dampness from spring rains providing a humid warmth to radiate from the outside as she circles around to find a suitable place to begin. Unfortunately for the dark wraith this is only the first of many hours that are to pass as she forgoes this horrendous struggle of playing god.

Pacing and nesting has her attention swayed for the first few hours as the sunlight slowly dies outside the den and contractions work their way through her body as it readies itself for the process. Impatience grows as she waits and waits for her body to finally decide to release them from her. But it does not come. She lays upon her side as her breaths now come in pants as contractions swell and the urges to push have her firstborn onward down its path to new life. Her efforts provide little fruit within the first half hour and yet she will not have them stay within her womb. ”Leave me!” it is growled through a gnashing arsenal of fangs as she turns her head wildly to her hind side, eyes wildly wide as she demands the child to come forth. Her panting quickens and more contractions press the pup further from the protective confines of her belly until it quite literally erupts from her. Placenta and child land upon the moss and leaf covered earth before she naturally lifts to turn and clear the child’s airways of the sac and to lick vigorously to usher his first breaths into his lungs. He is glorious in all ways, much like her in a sense of ashen and soot, yet his face is marked with crimson and his legs fade to white.

Little more concern remains with the first boy though as more contractions steal her attentions away. Her head slings back to the floor as she stretches out, legs extending before retracting again once she realizes that there is an unusual soreness to her vulva. A nearly inaudible groan is exuded through her lips as she watches the world outside change from golden-orange to bloody reds and purples. Her second child shall come.

She feels the tightening again within her abdomen and within moments the second is wriggling so forcefully out of its crowded boundaries. Once again she snips the cord and bursts the sac that encases him, offering him his first breaths as she stimulates his lungs to work. He is very different from the first, very much a male, and yet he is silver in tone with pale accents of blonde and white. Unusual for one of her dark genetics and yet surely this is Elijah’s work. She nudges him roughly as a moment is given for her to examine both offspring together while they feast upon her milky nectar. Already she can see such personalities forming within them – so strange that it can happen as suddenly as it does. Though her consideration for their overall health is disrupted by yet another forceful wave of pain.

By now her vulva feels as if it is throbbing in pain, her mind now taken from the onslaught of it all so that it is actually forefront in her thoughts. There is nothing that she can do for it now. No. She must bide her time… birth these final whelps. They must be delivered soon. Without another breath taken it is that her third born is sent from the depths of her being, his figure twisting and his size pushing the very limitations of her own body as he is expelled. A guttural growl rumbles within her chest as she turns as quickly as she can to clean him off just as the others, snipping him free, and licking him quite roughly. A boy as black as the night now turns, nearly missed within the shadows of the catacomb she lays within. She pushes him with her muzzle toward her side along with his brothers to assess him as well until it is that her strength is tested once again.

Despite her weariness she is thankful that this pup has wanted to leave so soon after her older brother and is ready to be rid of her just as well. Rolling sequences of spasms urge the whelp away from the womb and with a final, agonizing push the only girl of the litter is brought to life. Burning, fire burning so hot, searing at her flesh. She feels it and yet she can do nothing as she rises to her paws, blood spilling in a cascade from her vulva, before she manages to free the girl and also nudge and caress her forcefully. Stella turns about in her den, testing her movement, feeling the burning flare up in full force as another pool of cruor forms at her heels.

She must return to the children. To feed them. To keep them alive. Contracted pupils search the darkness for the whimpering pile of puppies until she finds them and returns, laying herself around them in a curled manner as she forms a barrier. Their paws and underbellies soon become drenched in the slowly seeping blood of their aftermath while she lays in silence… in anguish. But she will not accept help – she will survive.