When life gives you lemons, make friends in a bloodbath

The warm bronze sunlight was swallowed by the horizon. The bright sunny day engulfed in darkness. A beautiful darkness. A darkness where the spawns laughter lines illuminated and seemed to turn from creaks to craters as the bronze mistress frowned at the scintillating moon. The cold night tired her and she closed her eyes, engulfed in the entrance shadows. Somewhere in the distance an owl sounded, in the past the sound was awakening the nocturnal nature of Hannibal and as of now there was no other but Recluse to wonder. The lustrous, dancing stars glinted in the sky, brightening it even more. Shimmering stars illuminated the jet black sky, as if to remind her that even in darkness there is still light. The air was still and heavy, thick clouds covered half sky. A cool breeze swept the alienated forest edge. Even shadows were swallowed by the encroaching darkness and though their forms were invisible to the naked eye it was a scent that disturbed the Golden Goddess peace. A scent, unfamilar and yet it was closer to home than others, a scent of a predatorix on the loose, a scent of something dangerous that was lurking, prowling in the shadows of the unknown.

And it was with that scent within her lungs that she rose to her full height and prowled outside the new den, murderous incisors displayed in a threatening manner. Her muscle tensed, her ears flattened against her regalia and her fiery orange gaze was aflame while she placed one teacup paw in front of the other seeking the source. She did not want to wake the younglings yet her radiance was that of confidence and dominance over the earth; she maintained the grace of a dominatrix yet it was clear she had seen better days. With Hannibal enslaved she was to be both Mother and Father to the younglings; she had to hunt and watch them during the day and watch over Recluse during the night fore, as her father, she too was a special breed, a night creature. The woman barely sleeps thesedays, let alone eat herself. A battle would be in her disadvantage but she would rather die than let anyone touch a hair thread from her spawns heads. I know you are there. grave were her tones, quiet snarls meat to threat, seriousness pouring from her pores, Come out at once!