The night that Beltane had given birth to her litter, Onias had felt it. He had felt his blood, strong in the body of something weak. Perhaps it was precognition or perhaps it was just a lucky guess, but he had an inkling that it was the only one. He had meditated beneath the moon on the shores of the river just before it entered Iromar, close, but not intruding. He was too nervous to be close, but he thought he might help in his own way. Onias had chanted the old verses quietly each night, even though not a necessity, it had helped to calm his nerves during the night, if nothing else. While he was a man of dark ritual and superstition, he was not above the lowly mortal emotion of worrying for a lover.

Onias had hovered in such a way for a while, making his presence known crossing the border and leaving squirrels and muskrats, or by delivering certain herbs to promote the health of Beltane and of the litter. He came when he knew they would be resting, and left the supplies at the mouth of her den. It was his way of seeking her permission to see the children. Although he was sure that his blood ran in at least one pup, he still felt like an intruder. They weren't mates, and he certainly wasn't the type to devote himself--though he enjoyed Beltane's company, he was never prepared to claim her in such a way. She didn't seem to want that, but didn't all women? Ah, perhaps she was not like the rest. He could hope.

She had accepted his gifts up until now (or some other animal had taken them if they'd been ignored), and Onias decided he'd make his approach. He brought a shoddily woven wreath with him, strung with wild garlic and nettle. From his spot on the riverbank he traveled into Iromar, ignoring the territory markers with the flippancy of someone who thought himself above borders. The foxlike male slipped through the blooming flowers, his steps light on the springy moorland grass. Beltane and her litter fit well in this mysterious place.

He approached the den's mouth at a slow pace, laying the wreath down at its entrance carefully. "Listener, I lay this wreath here to protect your den, and you and the whelps within." Onias said, peering cautiously into the den. Birth and motherhood had always been a sacred topic in his sect, and Beltane was a woman well in touch with her femininity. "I also left you gifts to show my appreciation and respect for your energy. I hope you find me worthy to meet them now." He posed with bated breath, suddenly terrified of refusal. He was no father, hardly a man... perhaps he was not worthy.