Giggle felt like she should be fat. She wasn't; not aside from her slight, typical hyena potbelly, at least. But some instinct part of her insisted that if she was having babies, she should be fat.

She didn't really get it.

The chrysalises, though--those were swelling, for sure. Not enormously, but certainly not the little slivers they had been. The fire agate was growing well enough that she was sure the cub growing within must at least be destined for a hyena's size; the bayldonite seemed somewhat smaller. The brookite, set opposite it, wasn't enormous either--so she wasn't expecting another Ravage-sized litter, at least.

They'd all outgrown most of her attempts at hiding them with dust, at least. A little sand scattered over a sliver of stone would hide it, but not these larger rocks. At least they were pretty to look at: bubbly opaque orange, bright green, and wine red. Not that Giggle knew what wine was.

She was pacing, now, gently moving a little dead, dried grass over one stone, and laying a feather on another, in some vague instinct to insulate them. It wouldn't do anything, she knew; but she had little better to do, right now, than dote on rocks.

Could hunt, Omen suggested, along their link. Or rather, the bird sent images and sensations: seeking, hunting, eating. Giggle snorted loudly, pausing to peer up with dark amusement at the Hallowed Caller--which in turn shifted from foot to foot where it perched upon an old antler overlooking the den, embarrassed somehow. Omen knew what she would say before she said it: "We just ate. You're a pig," Giggle told her, shaking her head as she stifled a laugh. But I'm hungry. She wasn't. She was playful, and a pig, yes. And Giggle laughed louder, this time. "We'll get food again later, Omen. You're going to get fat, if you're not careful. You won't be able to fly," she told the bird.

Then she lifted a little leaf, and set it atop the fire agate chrysalis, which did nothing but made her feel vaguely, sort-of-productive.