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Home, sweet home.
After wintering aboveground and many months of waiting out the Frostfall snow, the drifts had finally shrunk small enough for the arthritic mare to abandon the Secret Grove and to journey south. Ever the strategist, she had gathered materials along the way for what she anticipated would be a much-needed cleaning of her nook: the moss bed would need to be replaced altogether, everything would need to be dusted, and of course, the little fire would need to be relit. And so, she had constructed a makeshift sledge out of a broad piece of willow bark and towed her supplies beside her, adding various lichens, dry kindling where she could find it, and dead grasses to her pile as she traveled south. The trek was slow and muddy, and the growing weight of the sledge on the thinning snow significantly hampered her progress as Sheba neared the end of her journey, but the old mare was determined to reach the familiar darkness of her home once more and moved at a dogged, if not stiff clip.
It was a beautiful Birdsong morning when she at last reached her doorstep. Skin tingling pleasantly with the heat of the Heart, she stepped into the mouth of the cave system and sighed, blinking rapidly at the sudden darkness. Her night vision had atrophied greatly in her season aboveground, and while she knew her way to her nook through the shadows, Sheba deemed it wise to bring a torch—it wouldn’t do to go tripping and breaking a leg over any debris that had likely accumulated in her absence. Stashing her sledge in a small alcove near the entrance, she grabbed s few longer branches and a mouthful of kindling, then slipped outside to procure her light.
It was no easy task to catch a spark from the Heart and coax it into a flame, but the crone went about the task with a patience born of the knowledge that her goal was in sight. Soon enough, the torch was lit and she was on her way back into the dark maze, hooves echoing eerily on the walls as she made her way to the nook where she slept. Her pebble trails were scattered in places, and the air was damp and musty without her constant coming and going, but overall the damage along the trail was not as bad as she’d guessed—hopefully, the nook would be the same.
Spirits high, Sheba rounded the corner and raised the torch to survey the alcove that she had left months ago. The remains of her campfire were where she had left them, and although the floor was coated in a thin later of dust, it was nothing that couldn’t be—wait.
There, in the mossy nest that had once been her bed, the torchlight flickered against an egg.
Her first instinct was to tense, and she cast the light around wildly, looking for signs of an angry mother. But mysteriously, there was no trace of another soul in the space, no scent of anything other than the damp air and no telltale footprints through the dust. The nook was deserted. Letting loose the breath that she had been holding, the crone crept forward. Perhaps this unwelcome visitor could be dealt with, after all.
Wedging the torch into a crevice that spanned the cave wall, Sheba reached out and nosed at the egg. It was heavier than she had expected it to be, but it wobbled easily enough in the bed of old moss. “Sorry cherie, but this is my house,” she murmured, and with a careless shove, rolled the egg out of the nest and onto the stone floor. She didn’t exactly know where she intended to abandon it, but it certainly wasn’t going to stay there. Perhaps she could roll it up the corridor and send it on its merry way into the darkness—it didn’t much matter, she supposed, since it wasn’t her problem.
Or so she thought.
As she contemplated the egg, thoughtfully considering the most efficient way to dispose of it, it began to rock. At the first sign of movement, her ears shot back and she moved forward, ready to move the intruder along. “Oh no you don’t,” Sheba muttered, pushing the wobbly egg into the dark tunnel. “There’s only room for one in this—“
CRACK!
She had given the egg a mighty shove, and the orb had run against a large pebble. While the noise was barely audible, it went off like a gunshot in her head, and Sheba stumbled, ears lying flat against her neck.
CRRRACK!
The egg went again, and she growled under her breath from the ringing in her ears. The sound was deafening, and while she struggled to move forward and rid herself of the thing that was quickly splitting in two before her eyes, she could not. It was as if she was walking in a dream—
CRRRACK!!
And with a final mighty noise, the egg burst open and she squealed from the pain; her head was on fire as a new consciousness seared itself on to her brain unbidden, and she was overcome by an overwhelming sense of blood, and damp, and darkness. She fell to her knees. Vaguely, she could make out the shape of something small and wet crawling towards her, and then two large, dark eyes pierced the disorienting haze.
“What have you done?” she whispered.
The ocelot didn’t answer.
"speech"
OOC: Open to any!
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[O] What have you done? [hatching; open]
