Wheeling Gull Isle little star, tonight

The lastborn Volkodav-Corten was, for a time, naught but a quivering droplet of shimmering ink. The shock of being spilled into existence seemed insurmountable to the little life, and like a seaswept mariner, she froze instinctively upon awakening to evaluate this new state of being through the pads of her infinitesimal toes.

At once, she took life between her budding teeth and gasped. Air crashed into the tiny lungs and ricocheted against their nascent walls, then tumbled from her yawning mouth in a piping cry. A sweep of pressure and warmth from the tip of her nose to the tip of her tail incensed her; she thrust her tiny flippers into a spasm of forward motion until her tender muzzle bumped against a series of closed doors —

— brother, sister, brother —

Well and truly displeased now, she sang her ire, loosing a litany of peeping accusations before something warm and gentle scooped her close. An instinctive urge to suckle rounded her mouth; she scaled a sealskin mountain and found her place, and even then, the vigorous kneading of her tiny paws did not cease until her hunger was sated and replaced by a deep weariness. Curling close, she sang herself to sleep.