Blackfeather Woods Ours is a cycle of hatred

He had taken on some of the duties of keeping his younger siblings alive, rabbit's meat gurgling in his stomach as he walked to the Glen, ready to be reguritated for the little bastards (he said that with fondness, rather than his mother's curses). It only was a year ago that he was the crippled one — born small, barely breathing — and now, there were two more to take his place. He remembered the first time he had seen them, how he cringed at the short one's neck, felt a twinge of sympathy for the girl's mangled paw. They would never be normal, but really, what did that mean? They were being raised by a pack of wolves who worshipped a spider god.

He slid down the Glen's slope, barking a greeting to the two crippled kids. They were playing out in the clearing, wrestling as best as they could with their limitations. He couldn't help but smile at them; it was cute, in a weird way.