[ pls wait for @rowanheart :3 ]
Her claws scrape together morsels of moss, tucking them back into spare nests that she passes by. It seems that all she can do now is pace and wait - wait and pace, even - for her kits to arrive and leafbare with them. Serpent hasn't yet dreaded the snow and cold, yet, but as days wear on, she begins to think she just might to pass the time. After all, what other use is a pregnant molly for, if not to complain about the unchangeable?
Green eyes drift through lingering cats, and soon she finds a small form of russet and rust. Rowan, if she recalls them well. A skinny squirrel falling from her teeth, a meal for a kitten perhaps. The dead thing looks as if it was already ill and failing! Just who had taught this youngling to hunt, if she only went after the weak?
"Rowan, sweetheart?" she pads closer to the other. She keeps her gaze level, sharp with intent but edged with a newfound fondness for the youth; she blames it on the litter she bares. "How's hunting for you? Not too difficult, I hope, with all the leaf litter."