Pawns. Leera nods, folding her ears back. Of course Nephthys is using Hannibal as a pawn, and Hannibal using her -- isn't everybody using someone? Such is life, Leera knows, a mere game where there are winners and there are losers and Leera never lost.
The bronze queen raises another question and Leera thinks for a moment, dragging her tongue across her teeth, picturing the sleight-hued father of her incubating litter. He is stoic and impatient and cold, but his blood runs with power and that is all that really matters to Leera. Like Nephthys, her relationship has nothing to do with love either. Only power moves. "Tyranis is a preoccupied king; we do not speak much but I do not need words. Words are useless." What she needs is power.
Leera stretches her paws out, basking in the warmth of the goddess' plush cinnamon fur. She grooms the woman's fur, if she'll accept, combing out the fine hair with her tongue. "I haven't seen a healer if there is one. But if there isn't, do not worry. I have delivered pups before and know some herbs that can help with the pain."
She closes her eyes as she grooms Nephthys, ears laid back and completely relaxed. An ear flicks when the other mentions examination. "Abaven. Hm. And you trust them? I wouldn't let another pack close to my womb -- after all, it'll be their children against ours when the next wartimes come." Perhaps Leera is just paranoid, but just the same it was her old pack's custom to seek out and murder the newborns from rival groups.
Leera is a mature character.
Force/violence is permitted within reason.
Plot with us here!
