"You know," the voice starts, and the sentence is not finished before a loud buzzing begins and the voice's owner is forced to scramble, unelegantly and clumsily, back from the edge of the branch.
There is a brief pause as the voice regains its composure and then it continues, sounding slightly put out. "There was no need for that," it says, "I'm only trying to help you. I know you're pregnant, and most does want some kind of leg up on the situation."
"Get out of my tree," the doe says, voice thick with sleep. It is the wee hours of the morning; the sun rises in an hour. It is the darkest portion of the night, before the dawn chorus even starts -- and the self-assured voice and shaking branches above her are the last thing she wants to bother with.
"No," the voice says; a moment later there is a mild thump next to her and a gryphon prowls around the periphery of the garden. It takes care not to stop on the myriad of bugs who call this portion of the swamp home -- huge cave worms, ethereal dragonflies, a couple of spiders who peer out from holes in the mangrove, and the bane of this visit, a vicious-looking giant wasp with a bad attitude. "I won't. Do you want the sacs to be eaten by," and the gryphon looks around, "this?"
"They won't," the kimeti assures him. "Do you think I'm stupid?"
The gryphon does not respond to that.
Eventually the doe sighs -- and somehow, as if the wasp is aware that she's given in, it settles down onto her back with a buzz and click of mandibles.
"Fine," she acquiesces.
The gryphon beams at her, as much as its beaky face will allow. But there is a glint in its burning-blue eyes that suggests this isn't a game, that this is a real thing. As if in response the tiny sacs in her belly shift. Beetleshell grunts.
"Your children will be happy, healthy, and strong," Longstride says, "and your pregnancy swift. Just -- .. don't let them be eaten by bugs."