Sleeping Dragon I'm your puppet

For anyone that may have access to the den and/or pups. ^^

When Hvitserk awoke, it had not been due to any aches or pains. It was a good day, it seemed; for the time being, at least, but who could tell for sure if it'd remain that way? Consciousness had been found for no reason at all, for all through his sleep had he continued to suckle away, successfully having filled his stomach. For how long he'd last without needing more, it was unclear, but in the meantime he'd simply laid there. Being something that was practically a newborn meant not having very much to do, or really wanting to do anything, for that matter. Sure, he could wiggle around and bump into the other small masses on either of his sides, as well as knead his mother's stomach when nourishment was desired, but aside from that there wasn't much else. Thus, he'd laid there, keeping silent for the pain in his stomach had yet to flare up.

In and out of sleep he had drifted unknowingly until a little timer went off in his head that meant meal time. At one point or another, though, the little boy had managed to turn himself all around, resulting in the teats that he'd sought being located near to his backside. Having not realized this, Hvit had nosed around until he'd found something to latch onto, which had just so happened to be a twig, of all things. How it had managed to blow into the den without then being swept back out was a mystery, truly, but nevertheless he'd latched right onto that sucker and began to work his little mouth in an effort to coax the milk into his stomach. Though it didn't come immediately—and definitely never would—that didn't keep him from continuing with his efforts.

At least once a day, Thuringwethil will drop by the den. She often has a kill between her jaws but this day she does not. Everything eluded her up until this point and she knows when to admit defeat so instead of continuing her search, she cuts her patrol short and moves inward the claim. Her whelping den had strategically been placed as far from the borders as they could manage on a mountain so it took some time to get there.

She chuffs in greet, with a brief exchange, and she works her large body down into the small space. Thuringwethil makes herself comfortable with a few thumps of her tail behind her. Hvitserk, however, seemed out of line with his butt toward his mother and latched on to a stick. "What are you doing, little buddy?" she murmurs quietly and noses at him. He's quiet today, which had to mean good things, but she worries too much might push him over so for a moment she keeps her paws to herself.

The stick refused to provide for him any milk, making the boy believe that he'd found a defective teat. It was not his since his always worked perfectly well, so whose was it? And what did they do to break it? He was interested to find out—about as interested as a puppy could be, anyways—but had no means of asking around. His babbling was something that could not be understood, and his cries only produced certain things: food, warmth, or other stuff. There was no cry that could ask 'hey, who broke this?' or 'what happened here? fix it!'. Only he could understand what thoughts drifted through his head, so it was lucky that his attention span was not yet fully in existence. The boy's time would not be spent mulling over that which he would never know, for against his body he'd felt something cold.

Hvitserk had been learning more and more with each passing day, but one of the first things that he'd ever learned about had been the cold. It was most unpleasant, and something he rarely sought, but there were also different versions of it. Certain cold things made him want to snuggle up against his mother's underbelly, while other cold things made him curious. Thur's nose had been the latter of the two, for he'd related the touch to the way in which his attention could be grabbed. So, he'd swung his head around—the resemblance to a bobblehead was uncanny—with the stick still in his mouth, the end being dragged along for the ride as he searched for whatever had touched him.

When he caught the boy’s attention, he swings his head around away from him with the stick dragging behind him with an uneven line drawn in the dirt. Thuringwethil chuckles softly, lowering her head back down to the ground and blowing a wave of warm air to draw the attention back to her. Before he does, she gently takes the other end of the stick between her teeth with a little pull to get him into a game of tug-o-war.

In his search for the thing that had touched him, he'd ended up focusing his attention on the wrong direction. Luckily, though, there came a breath upon his body, pulling him to swivel around—as well as he could, mind you, which wasn't very well at all—and locate the culprit. Though he could not see, his snout pointed up towards her after a little work had gone into moving, the stick being clamped loosely between his tiny jaws. When he'd felt it move, however, his grip had tightened, ready to keep the useless teat from being stolen away. When it was pulled, he'd tried to hold tight, his head jerking forward in the process, but was ultimately unable to keep the stick in his possession. Away from him it'd been taken, and though it was most likely an unintentional thing, he'd viewed it as the exact opposite. Someone had stolen from him, someone wanted him to starve! So, Hvit did what Hvit did best and released his award-winning banshee cry.

The boy doesn’t hold on to the stick as well as she thought he might and her heart sinks when he cries. Thuringwethil whimpers a few times, inching closer to nudge him with her nose again to try and get him to stop. When the attempts become futile, she nudges the stick back in front of his face in hopes taking it back might silence him once more. Hoping it’s a simple case of being mad about her actions, rather than a pain in his stomach against, she encourages him to take it from before she sets off another wave of panic in herself.

The boy had continued to cry, ignoring the nudges for they could not provide him with what he wanted. He'd tried to hold tight, to defend the useless teat despite its lack of milk, but had failed in the end. Never would he be able to try and fix it or have a full stomach again. It was the end for young Hvitserk, his world crumbling down around him—or so he'd thought. Before he could continue with his crisis, the stick had been returned to him. At first, he hadn't even realized that it was there on account of his wailing, but once he did, he'd fallen silent almost immediately. He'd nosed it a few times, several sniffles leaving him in the meantime, before latching onto the twig once more and letting out a satisfied hmph.

Eventually he takes the stick back and is silent, happily munching (or whatever he’s doing) on it, and Thuringwethil sighs a wave of relief. It hadn’t been anything horrible again she’s thankful he’s been having more good days than bad since they’d discovered a remedy, no matter how temporary. Her head lowers to the ground and she nudges him again, licking against the side of his face while he remains content on his current job.

Between sucking on and gumming at the twig, he couldn't tell which he enjoyed more. Both were satisfying in their own special ways, though he remained disappointed by his inability to fix that which had been broken. Perhaps, someday, he'd manage to do so. It'd be put at the top of his to-do list as soon as he knew what a to-do list was. For the time being, his time was occupied, though there came a small distraction when he'd felt a tongue against his face. His suckling had then stopped, mouth releasing the stick as his noise was raised up in the direction that the feeling had come from. He'd waited a moment or two before going back to what he'd previously been doing, deciding that the stick was more important that finding out who had caused him such grief a short while ago.

Licking him only disturbs him for a second before he goes back to the stick and so instead, she keeps her head on the ground and lets her warm breath wash over him every so often. She watches to make sure he doesn't break the stick off into his mouth and choke himself, occasionally nudging him with her nose to see how much of a rouse she can get out of him. Thuringwethil considers, very briefly, tugging on the stick again but she holds back for fear of upsetting him once more.

Left to his own devices with only the occasional prodding being issued, the boy had been happy. Though, after some time of working on the twig, he'd abandoned the thing altogether. It had been dropped from his mouth along with a nice glob of drool, and then afterwards he'd managed to pull himself around before eventually finding his way to Thur. Unknowingly, he'd made himself right at home against her cheek, pressing himself so deeply into her fur that it was a surprise he'd not smothered himself. There he'd stayed, enjoying both the plushness of her coat and the warmth that she could provide for him.