Whatever the griffon watches, goes unseen.  The ferocious bull griffon glowers at the recesses of the enclosure all about, as if challenging an army of phantoms in array.  He does not move, though.  He makes no definite sign of encroaching threat.  He only guts the emptiness with his gaze to make sure it cannot marshal against him, his land and his mate.<br/><br/>In that mate - in the soft and achingly sensitive rind of Miaren's womb - the eggs continue to billow with vitality.  Against the press of her hand, the smooth contours become definite, felt in scintillating relief through the stretched sleek of her belly via the fever bright telegraphy of a hundred worried nerves.  Hormones rush like housewarming guests to the tender tightness, delivering packets of flickering excitement, crisp awareness, brandied arousal.  Flesh reacts by cupping the eggs all the more ardently.  The eggs, in reply, seem to feel to grow.<br/><br/>They tremble ever so slightly as Fern's touch passes the space of the enclosure wall, catching the paper-thin cling of one of the straps grasping Miaren's nudity, and hauling her into the space of the hallway.