The events of the 10th of Hematite, 1072
Crispin waddled into the barracks, her arms stuck out at her sides for balance. The others slowed in their training, and eventually stopped, watching the mother of six ponderously enter the sparing grounds. Her husband, Luke, was behind her, his arms held out to keep her steady and prevent her from tipping over. Most of her upper body - her chest, her back, her shoulders, were covered in laughing, flapping children, strapped to her with harnesses and ropes.
"We had another child," Luke explained. His usual excitement seemed to be tempered a tad. "Lovey is birthing them like clockwork."
"At this rate, we'll be able to field our own otad-biban team," Crispin added brightly, not at all bothered by her husbands lack of enthusiasm. "What a show that would be."
Merkil weighed the situation in silence for a moment. Eventually, he said, "While I understand the merits of a large family, perhaps you're overdoing it a bit."
"Jools had a family just as large, if not larger," Crispin pointed out.
"He did - and I wasn't in charge then to say anything about it."
"You know," Wilber said, slowly running a hand along the wide brim of his hat. "Their collective is intriguing; armored by her very kin, skin protected from sinful hits and crit-ical strikes... the likes of which we've rarely seen, ben-eath the beating of that cursed sun."
The soldiers gaped at Wilber. As if confused himself, he doffed his wide-brimmed cap, the feather he had stuck in the side wiggling jauntily, "I had Makrond make it, from love and leftovers."
"No more," Merkil said, attempting to gain control once more. "Really, no more, this will just lead to travesty. You've already had one die, and one has grown up, but if they are taken to battle, I fear for the worst. For all of you. No. More!"