Blackfeather Woods AHHH! It's demons! Run Jim! Ruuuuun! Ruuuuun!

The first thing to register in the little monster's new consciousness was that it was bloody cold.

Upon hitting the den floor and finding a place among his twisted brethren, Ramsay's amniotic sack split itself. By a stroke of luck he drew his first breath—had that not happened, the little dwarf would have suffocated in fluid without Potema's help. Covered wholly in dark fur and with a hearty pair of lungs that immediately began to cry for his mother, he would have been the picture of health if his spine wasn't approximately half the length it ought to be. Each of his limbs was perfectly proportioned, his ears small flaps on his head, his nose already wriggling actively between cries, but there was something very wrong with Ramsay's spine, and that doomed him to further hatred and disgust from his mother.

His forelegs began to flail, weakly attempting to drag his stunted body toward any source of warmth, but all he found was other little bodies incapable of regulating their heat. Ramsay cuddled in close to them—the one with the grotesque jaw on his right, the completely healthy one falling still on his left—and resigned himself to this new life of misery with a pitiful squeak, none the wiser to the fact that he was deformed as well and that his mother would reject him even if he wasn't.