Eggs. There were many eggs; some were small, some larger, some buried beneath loam and others in nests made of weaved grass. She had spent the morning collecting them - she was gentle when she uncovered them, held them ever so gently between her front teeth as she took them towards the territory's boneyard. Never did she go to the boneyard but she was content being close to it, being able to smell the deep bogs and stillwater that made it up. To her, it seemed to be Iromar's source of power - even a stranger, another pack wolf, had come to see it, after all.
Though it was summer, the moors remained quite pleasant even as the sun rose to its peak. She stood tall in her little clearing as she closed her eyes and allowed herself to revel in the breeze that rippled through the reeds; she breathed in the scent of the pack, those within it,
inhaled the scent of new strangers. Blackthorne had amassed quite a following but she grew weary of many newcomers; they sought him only when he had power, after all, and so she wondered if they desired his cause or something else entirely. You could never predict chaos, though.
In front of her, she had created small nests of her own. Beltane had dug small indents into the soft earth, patted the reeds flat and within each indent was one of her many eggs - five to be exact. One was a large cream coloured one, likely a gator, and the others were all bird,
she assumed; a small, blue egg, a speckled one and two plainer types. Their shells were pretty but she wondered what they housed inside - yolks? Fetuses? Death? Perhaps her curiosity over such a thing had been what had stirred her to suddenly call out to the others. It was no good for her to find out what each egg housed, after all. They were not her omens to read but rather, whoever grew curious enough to honor such a peculiar call for attention.