inexplicable pain radiates throughout the deity’s abdomen as convulsions incessantly wrack her rugged physique, an obvious suggestion to the inevitable emergence of the minuscule tyrants that lurk within her vile womb. and despite the crippling sensation traversing through her interior as her contractions’ frequency increases, the phantom is eerily and externally unperturbed, appearing almost placid if not for the perpetual snarl engraved into the porcelain folds of her visage. yet the deity’s gait is a haggard lope as she pursues the security and comfort of she and her carmine beauty’s sleeping chambers, a lamenting summons for the babe writhing past clenched jaws as she breaches their cavern’s threshold. for while the elysius tyrant is typically an independent creature { and prefers it this way }, she is smothered by her own uncertainty -- by momentary and uncharacteristic fear that she presumes the former empress can quell with her presence. the tyrant’s breathing rate accelerates as she settles within her shared { though currently vacant } quarters, allowing herself to roll upon her side in an attempt to obtain a mild sense of contentment whilst agony persists. diligent pupils locate the entrance of her haven in anticipation of fiamette’s arrival, tacitly urging the scarlet babe into her proximities. table by lu.

Velveteen lips hungrily hover above the limp body of a large hair, the empresses tongue swiping across her cracked lips as her stomach begs her to take a bite. Crimson blood stains her already carmine painted features from her snout to her throat, and her once pearly white teeth are stained red. She has just killed some lunch for Artemis and herself, and she is just about to snatch the hair up between her jaws when Artemis' desperate cry eerily consumes the dark forest. Volcanic orbs roll upwards as she looks up at the sky, her ears turning toward the direction of the call- the den. She wastes no time, her body already starting to turn itself toward the call as it fades into silence. She takes off toward the den as fast as her ebony appendages will carry her, her tongue desperately trying to clean her face of the blood that stains her fur. Her defenses are starting to rise, her tail is aligning with her spine, and her hackles are lifting along her nape and spine. It does not take long for the nymph to reach the dark enclosure, the perfume of her ivory paramour filling the air. She slows her pace and slips through the opening in a swift motion, her molten hued eyes falling upon the laying form of Artemis."Artemis?"  She calls out softly as she aims to close the distance between them. She lays down across from Artemis and rolls herself over onto her left side so she can face the deity. She aims to lay close enough to where she could easily reach forward and touch the woman. By the look on Artemis' face, she can tell something is wrong, and she is almost positive she knows what it is. It must be time for Art to give birth. “Anything you need me to do, I will. ” She says in an attempt to comfort the tyrant. She has never witness a birthing in her entire lifetime, so she is oblivious to the true pain Artemis is enduring.     "Fiamette," "Artemis"

note to staff: lucius will not make it to the two week mark.

relief encompasses the deity as the nubile physique of her carmine beauty manifests within the threshold of their cavern, frayed lips quirking with the faintest hint of a contented grin. yet the expression withers from her features as another cataclysmic convulsion surges through her distended abdomen, extracting a pitiful whimper from the depths of her larynx. “just… stay,” the elysius instructs, mismatched gaze pinpointing her consort’s own sanguine with an intensity unrivaled -- as if to plead. though her pupils’ fixation is broken as pain prevails, forcing her eyes to clench shut and her dulled nails to grapple with the terrain beneath as if such desperate actions would alleviate her suffering. there is no preventing the expulsion of her unborn { her prodigies } from the confines of her womb; the deity can only succumb to their tacit urges for release. instinct demands she push, a cacophony of muted whimpers and guttural snarls cascading from gaping jaws as she abides to this primal inclination. and as the first of presumably many emerges from her womb and into the outside realm, the elysius pursues its miniscule form with a rasping tongue, breaking its enclosing film with the fervent licks of a fledgling mother. yet even as the babe { whose pale flesh resembles that of her own } is freed from its sack, an eerie and foreboding silence prevails. yet the newfound mother is oblivious to the rarity of such an occurrence, an infantile mirth radiating from pallid pores as she nudges the child’s limp body in the direction of her teats. but as the cruel realization strikes her { this babe is rigid, cold, dead }, insurmountable dread writhes into her psyche. “fia, fia --” the deity panics, incessantly and desperately prodding the stillborn with leathery nostrils as if to revive what had never lived. as if she could. “fia…” the mother of death laments, turning a dejected gaze upon her scarlet consort before it returns to the lifeless bundle at her paws. however, there is little time to mourn as the second wave of contractions persist, forcing the elysius’ skull to wrench away from the deceased as she continues to expel the remainder of her incarcerated children from her poisoned womb. tears well within amethyst and silver eyes -- a product of agony and sorrow -- as the second whelp surfaces -- alive. pride swells within the tyrant’s breast as she gazes upon her firstborn son, nudging him { successfully } towards the warmth of her abdomen. “my son -- odysseus,” she bestows upon him: he the first of the newest elysius generation, he the prodigal son. the survivor. and she, his sword and shield. alas, the deity’s womb remains occupied. but this birth is noticeably less strenuous -- less grievous -- a fragile runt the reward of the tyrant’s efforts. and despite the babe’s diminutive physique, he is an elysius nonetheless, and therefore, a glorified treasure in his mother’s eyes. “my lucius,” she blesses him, a tentative smile worming across abhorrent features as she examines her first litter with a keen eye, lingering momentarily upon the stillborn female. perhaps such a tragedy was warranted due to she and her carmine beauty’s assault upon the secretuan trio. or perhaps such was the way of life -- ruthless, unforgiving.

His world had been relatively peaceful, obvious to the actions of his tyrant mother. It wasn't until his world grew too small, uncomfortable, that he would become restless, demanding space from his growing littermates. He would not be the first born, his feeble sister having that honor. But unbeknownst to him, she was dead. He, however, would the first born son. His birth would trouble his mother some, but he didn't care, nor did he even known. His lungs would burn with the first taste of oxygen, pulling a furious wail from his dark jaws. He wouldn't be quieted until his jaws had firmly latched onto his mothers teat, the sweet taste of milk filling his belly and occupying his attention. His brother would soon find his place beside him, and together they would remain nestled against their mothers belly, save from the world for the time being.                 speech