Golden Glade Notre Famille [The Birth]

Life was a narrow gift for the tiny whelp. She was thrust into the world in few harsh shoves, greeted with a myriad of feelings that were not. For a few silent moments, the beating ceased within her chest and she lay cool and still as those before her had so peacefully done. Her bubble was her prison, yet her saving grace, for the rough and gentle movements were what stirred her breathe and shattered the grasp of Death with all the blessing of love and what fortune it could offer.

Time assembled around her gasping figure, smooth and of norm as she was nudged far more gently into the waiting grasp of something that smelled warm, and akin to The Dark. It was still not, yet was as if some unseen spirit had guided her feeble footsteps to drink the blood of life, rich and creamy as she latched on and began to suckle. And for that, when conscious was full, the pale embodiment would be grateful.