Ankyra Sound But you and I, we're pioneers

Maybe one of the characters mentioned here? Forward dated a few days to the 1 week mark.

The den was too cold today due to a blustery rain falling outdoors, and as if to protest the very fact, Wylla kept tugging herself further against Lusca's belly as if to melt into it and disappear back into the in utero life she'd once cherished. And yet her consciousness relished life enough that when a tangle of fur caught in her mouth, she choked and hacked and sucked in a precious breath as if it was the first and last she would ever take.

Wailing miserably for no outwardly discernible reason, Wylla managed to roll herself onto her side and angled her blind face forlornly toward the wall of the den with her back to her mother's belly. Woe is the world, her posture seemed to say. Woe is me. Truthfully Wylla was as unaware of things as ever except for the occasional touch of a cold draft upon her back, and her poor, whiny attitude was partly due to an upset stomach and partly due to the joy of one of her brothers literally shitting into her mouth earlier in the day. The two causes were probably not unrelated.

She shivered lightly and pressed her feet uselessly against the floor in an effort to shove herself backward into the warmth again, but her body was too fat and she went nowhere.

Hope you don't mind me and Kjalarr! awkward kja is awkward around smol bebes. :p

 

The first week of the birth of Lusca's babes Caiaphas' instructions had been clear: no one was allowed to bother the new mother or her newborns. Occasionally, as his duties took him past the den — followed by an unexplained desire to make sure that no one had dared to disobey the Saltwinter Queen he would hear a wail of one of the newborns within, but he kept moving. He had been told after the first week that he would be allowed to visit them — Saltwinter's youngest additions. Admittedly, it was not a knowledge that Kjalarr knew what to do with though he had accepted the invitation with a sage nod. He did not know Lusca, admittedly hadn't bothered to make his introductions with the pack's Omega, and was not sure how well his presence would be received by the new mother given that. Yet, it was Caiaphas' word that the Beta heeded without question — not anyone else's. He told himself that he would wait until they were old enough to pop out of the den supervised because that seemed logical and yet he had counted the days and when the babes had hit their week mark he found himself drawn to the birthing den out of little more than his own unbridled curiosity. He had found the trail of a groundhog earlier and had perused it with the intention of bringing it as a gift for Lusca — perhaps as some sort of peace offering because truly Kjalarr had no idea if a homage needed to be paid to the new mother or not; this was clearly out of the viking's league — but the rodent had escaped him and he had to go without anything to offer (as well as a slight sting to his pride).

For a long moment he deliberated outside of it, feeling, for the first time in his life siphoned of his usual confidence and left with an unusual ...awkwardness. More than once he almost turned to continue on his day, but the small sounds of life within the den kept his intrigue burning. He wanted to see them...the future of Saltwinter. The only pups he remembered being around had been his siblings and while the Frostfurs had been a month or so younger than him Kjalarr knew it wasn't the same thing. He offered a low chuff of greeting so that he would not startle the new mother with his sudden presence and slowly he entered the den on his belly, ears slicked back to his skull as he maintained his respect for Lusca as their mother...still not sure the rituals of this whole thing. What he saw was...well not what he expected and he realized just how different the memories of his siblings as children were to the Saltwinter infants. The babes were small blobs — made monochrome as everything else in Kjalarr's world — and instantly he tensed afraid of accidentally squishing them. Perhaps it was an irrational fear but he sucked in a small breath as he considered how fragile they were...and how big he was in comparison. One of them — a female her scent had told him — had her face to the wall of the den and was wailing.

“Such powerful lungs for one so tiny,” He hadn't realized he'd spoken his thought aloud until the deep, softened timber of his voice reached his own ears. Idly, Kjalarr wondered if the girl's fur was as soft as he thought it might be — the appearance of texture got lost more often than not due to Kjalarr's sight condition. He did not remember this stage of his own life and had been expecting them to be...bigger, able to do more than just wiggle and squirm. He'd scooted closer to the wailing female, trying to discern (to no avail) what made the child wail like a banshee.

As she scrabbled at the sparse ground of the den, Wylla was wholly unaware that she had a visitor. With a complete lack of hearing, sight or intuition, her awareness extended only to things she physically touched and felt. As such, the sudden absence of a draft was noted somewhere in her brain and her volume lessened, but the pup had no mental faculties to connect this phenomenon with the pale-furred beta wolf's approach. While all the wonders of puppyhood went through his head as he bore witness to her, Wylla's head was filled only with the static of "newbornitude", and no thoughts of other beings. He didn't touch her or otherwise announce himself in a way that the blind and deaf babe could know, so she went on wailing at the unseen wall, utterly heedless of him.

Kjalarr wasn't sure what to do to get the chubby child to cease her banshee laments, or for that matter, if it would be his place to attempt to placate the crying babe. His ears slicked back to his skull, relieved when her cries seemed to die down — or at the very least they moved down in their pitch and quickly Kjalarr mentally attributed it to his hulking presence. Awkward — and this was oh so awkward — he eyed the mother for a moment before tentatively he extended his muzzle to the child and made to gingerly brush his muzzle against her back in what he attempted to be reassuring, soothing gesture. Kjalarr was hesitant inherently afraid of breaking her or getting his face eaten off — or both. The child's scent had filled his nostrils: earth, and Caiaphas, Lusca, her siblings and of sweet mother's milk ...and a scent that he did not recognize — a scent that was something he could only identify as a puppy smell. He watched the vocal child with unbidden curiosity, wanting to judge what type of effect his brief touch (should it be successful) would have upon her. This was new territory to Kjalarr: puppies. New and utterly alien to the Beta but he was willing to learn even if he looked (and felt) like a bumbling fool in the process.

Aside from the powerful lungs they appeared to have they weren't awful...or even remotely terrifying — except he was terrified though more of what he could accidentally do to them than of the babes themselves — in fact they were actually really cute, disarmingly so.

If either caregiver heard Wylla's complaints, they were seemingly content to ignore her. Her cries threatened to pick up in volume once more, but finally the gentle touch of a snout graced her spine. In its place it left a shiver and Wylla was momentarily quieted, with interest piqued for a time. She lifted her head on its flimsy neck and drew deep, sucking breaths of the air, as if willing the culprit into existence. Kjalarr's smell was unlike Lusca's, Lycaon's and Ingram's, but not unlike Caiaphas' to her dulled senses. Had she the more delicate senses of a wolf grown, she would be able to detect the virile musk of a male and know it apart from Caiaphas' more feminine scent, but her nose was not that keen yet.

With a mewling gurgle that quickly transformed back into a bleating sound of distress, Wylla attempted to row the rough soil with her legs in an effort to turn around. Caiaphas was a comforting presence in the same way Lusca was, although not as profoundly for her, and she sought that comfort now with wavers of her head, discontent grunts and harsh puffs of air between her sopping gums.

There was a rush of unbridled surprise when his brief, perhaps hesitant, touch appeared to work. The young babe grew quiet — at least for the time being. A soft sigh of relief left the Viking's lips as he relished in the quiet that followed the (momentary) stillness of her cries. He watched her curiously as her head rose. It seemed like a gesture she struggled with ...like her head weighed too much for her body, which was a weird concept to him, Kjalarr realized. This was all ...new and undeniably fascinating to him as he watched her as if she were the most interesting thing on the earth. To him, in this moment, she very much was. There were other babes in the den but they were contented in their places close to their mother and he dare not bother them.

Kjalarr felt a warmth in his heart for the small, endearing child with lungs that would make Thor jealous when she let out a gurgling noise, only for his ears to slick back in slight panic when she began to wail out in distress once more. Could she sense his fear? He resisted the urge to shuffle back from her but remembering that his brief touch had quieted her for a moment he, instead, scooted closer to her and attempted to give her a gentle nudge — though he barely touched her, deftly afraid he might break her as he was — towards him, though he was largely unaware what it was she sought and what would quiet her. There was always the (awkward) chance that it was something he could not provide for her. Kjalarr didn't know anything about babies but he had noted the shiver she had given after his initial touch and some archaic instinct told him that perhaps it was simply warmth she sought. Babes needed warmth. It seemed logical — even full grown wolves required warmth of others sometimes and her fur had felt thin albeit extremely soft to him.

“What do you want, little bird?” He asked her in a low voice, quiet as to not disturb the atmosphere of the den though he was pretty sure she couldn't hear him ...and even if she could it was probably very likely she couldn't understand him; but he wasn't sure. He'd never talked to anyone about newborns before ...but it hardly mattered anyway even if someone would have mentioned it in passing: Kjalarr was all about learning things himself (and most of the time sometimes the hard way).

The mind of a newborn is a strange thing. There are only a few comforts in life and only instincts. Their life toddles on without emotion, inspiration or even purpose in those formative weeks. Wylla, for example, wanted for nothing. Her body still thrummed with the warmth of mother and brother and den. The air was musty and no unfamiliar scents distracted or distressed her, for Kjalarr smelled much the same as Caiaphas to the newborn babe. While comfort was always wanted, it wasn't a pressing need. She wasn't particularly hungry, either.

In short, Wylla cried because she could cry, and no one could know truly what would stop her.

When Kjalarr pulled her closer, her sounds grew muffled and curious for a moment, but without warning she gurgled and wailed again, seemingly without cause. And truly, there was no cause. She was a newborn and her mind was as simple as it got: she knew crying and not crying, and seemed to flip between the two as easy as a light switch. There wasn't always a reason. Crying was a comfort, too.

The babe quieted when Kjalarr had drew her nearer but only for a few blissful seconds before she began her insistent wailing once more. His caribbean and silver starbursted irises flashed towards Lusca for a second but then went back to the small bean looking newborn against his large paw. Kjalarr frowned — sure that the child could actually detect his fear — and drew his tongue over her small body gently, tasting fur and earth. It quieted her for a few more seconds before she began to screech again. Defeated, Kjalarr's broad shoulders slumped, a soft sigh leaving his lips. His lack of experience and lack of paternal instincts left him feeling rather clueless. “Hush, little bird,” He cooed softly to her though by this point he was fairly sure that he could croon to her all he wanted and that it would make no difference to the feisty newborn. Eventually, however, it appeared that she had cried herself tired and eventually the babe had drifted off. A soft sigh of relief left the Viking's lips, nearly inaudible for fear of waking her into another wailing fit once more.

That was where Kjalarr stayed, watching her sleep with quiet curiosity, sparing a glimpse at Lusca here and there, not wanting to disturb the child from her slumber by departing which would no doubt jostle her awake. When the babe awoke from her nap, she crawled towards Lusca and Kjalarr took his leave, allowing the mother her peace with her babes.