Paradise looked different to everyone; in Valeska's case, it manifested in the form of copious grandchildren.

Her paws had become sodden clumps of matted, chewed-up fur, her back hurt like hell from all of the play-wrestling, she hadn't slept in approximately 36 hours, and she wouldn't have traded it for anything. At present, however, she had finally (and very gingerly) laid herself down for a period of gentle repose, having long looked forward to a well-earned nap. She was happy to babysit for Dimitri and Fiadh - wasn't that what grandmothers were for? - but even she was mortal at the end of the day and required rest.

Which wasn't going to happen.

The sound of thumping paws swiftly approaching from her left saw her crack open a bloodshot eye.

Éabha, she grunted. Hello, Éabha.

She found it difficult rousing herself to action. After all, in just a little over a month, Valeska was going to turn an exhausting seven years old - seven! Technically she ought to have been eight, but the bountiful magic of Mythris or some such mystic woo-woo had freshened up some of her cellular structure by a full year's worth when she arrived.
Don't ask her how she knew; she just did.

Perhaps whatever the child wanted was simply a conversation this time. She could manage that much.

Valeska rolled lazily onto her back, ignoring the burning sensation emanating from the wound in her tail. She was very good at that lately. Tilting her head upside-down, she looked at Éabha expectantly, waiting for her lovely silver grandchild to state whatever her most recent desire was or to otherwise inflict further bodily harm upon the matriarch's aging form.