The noon was spent lazing. Though around 1PM, when she had sent her mate to fetch her the first thing he could find, pain like she had not yet experienced began to occur. She rose without a whimper, but her grimace was deep and her dark eyes betrayed her newest worry—

Would she survive this?

She had no time to worry. As the hours passed, her pains grew so great she could not think of anything at all but this pain. After thirty minutes, she entered the den and began to pace. Her breathing was labored and heavy, and for many long hours she endured this pain with nothing to come of it. If her mate came near, she would snap at him and urge him away; her instincts disabled her from wanting to see anyone in this state, or near the new life.

Tonravik felt something within her and spun in a thousand circles before settling at last within a corner of the den. She rose and repeated this a few more times until she could move no more. Her contractions were close together, now, and she snarled savagely. There was a time when instinct forced her to push, and push she did. The alpha female felt that no one or thing could hurt her so much as this did... and it was then the pain ended for a brief moment, all of a millisecond, until the thing came from her. She veritably roared as it came forth, and she swept the wet sac near her to lick it away, clean it, help it breathe... instinct. A son. The bear cub was monstrous for any baby in size, but still incredibly small and frail. There was only enough time to goad it near her tender belly before the urge came again to push.

She obeyed her instincts and did just that. Out came another, and she repeated her behaviors toward the other cub before ushering it beside its brother. Her second was large as well, and also a son she realized proudly, but she had little time to observe other attributes in either of them. She had to push again, and this was the most painless of them thus far. After doing what she must to help it survive, she tilted her head at this one. He appeared to be a dark brown to her given he was soaked from her cleansing and where he had been before, and although he was smaller, he was not especially small. She had but a moment to gather that before pain rippled through her again and another came. The fourth was large, larger than the third-born... cleaning him quickly, she goaded him to where he would eat, and there was another ripple of pain—

Her last born, the fifth, was a runt. He was born unmoving and frail, but she still tried to resuscitate him, tiredly not understanding he was already dead. When she did comprehend this, she unfeelingly devoured the thing, not wanting to draw predators in with the scent of death. It would seem her stress had taken a toll on the pregnancy after all. The alpha female moved to clean herself quickly, disrupting her cubs in the thoughtless movement, before their persistent mewling brought her down to them again, their cries making her ache oddly. Tonravik drew them close, licking their backs, and as they latched her muzzle wrinkled. How odd.

Surveying the tiny beasts, she could see they were all relatively dark-furred... and as one battled with the other for food, she grinned.

She did not leave their side. But she called out to her mate, who she would not let near the cubs except to bring her food to the mouth of the den, "Atuaserk, Malrok, Pingasut, and Sitamat—your sons—have survived. One did not." She had not taken the time to identify the gender; she had been entirely unattached from the moment she recognized it was dead.

Nobody knew it as he came into the world, but he would become the lightest of the four brothers. Arctic blood ran through him, somewhere, though Malrok's dingy coat gave no indication of that (yet). He was a mixture of brown and black now, stub-nose seeking out the warmth and comfort of his mother's milk. The boy was large, and he scrambled for his place amongst his siblings. He did not cry out, did not whimper. Malrok simply existed and drank (more than) his fill.

Warmth. Food. Those were the things he wanted and the cub had no problem wriggling and shoving another blob aside to get what he wanted. It probably didn't look much like shoving, but that was what his brain told him to do, and he did it. Milk teeth latched on to his mother's teat and began his existence, suckling the milk into his belly. As with his brother, there were no cries, no squeals. This was a silent blob and only time would tell what he would become.

Unlike his relatively silent two older brothers, Sitamat let out a yowl of anger as the warmth around him quite suddenly dissipated after some unrest. Something warm and soft and comforting swiped over his body, but he was quickly left exposed to the cool air again afterwards and yearned for the thing to return. It did, guiding the newborn towards another, larger heat source. His siblings — registering only in his mind as other sources of warmth — bustled around on either side, each being driven by instinct and a single desire. Sitamat squeaked as he eagerly made his way towards his mother's teats, blindly prodding her stomach with his nose before finally finding one and latching on.

It was frustrating. No doubt it was terrifying for her, but it was equally frightening and horrid to be on the outside looking in. He paced near the mouth of the den. She'd not allow him closer and it took everything within him to respect her wishes and stay away. He bristled. He wanted there to be something he could do to ease her pain and make it all go away, but he was left to linger as he listened to his mate howl.

She warred with herself. With her body. With their children. His talons scored the earth as he ran rivets into the ground with his nervousness. He'd not been on this side of a birth before. Did he have bastard children in the world? Probably. But this was the first time he'd been present for anything and he wanted to do this shit right.

He huffed and stared into the woods beyond. Hunting. He could still hunt right? He drifted, sneaking into the peripheral woods and unleashed fury on an offending squirrel, an unsuspecting chipmunk, and a rabbit that looked at him the wrong way. He returned, piling all of them up by entrance to the den as she continued to howl. For hours. Oh dear mercy let it stop.

Gritting his teeth gave himself a migraine. Flinching with her every whimper an yowl left him stiff and all the more irritable. He wasn't birthing their future, but there was a part of him that emphasized with every moan and groan and snarl as nature took its course.

She roared.

Whatever beast in there was enough to send chills down his own spine as the scent of birthing wafted towards the mouth of her cave and let him know the end of this nightmare was soon to bring better dreams. He still paced. Nervously. Excitedly. There were a number of things running through him he could not identify as he waited for the birthing to be complete.

He was drowned in silence. It all seemed to stop as he heard tiny mews and other sounds escape from the darkness where she lay. He poked his nose around the entrance, daring a look, but moving no further towards their brood. Close enough. He'd risk stepping closer come later days, but for now he did not wish for her to suffer more by tampering with her highly instinctual nature.

All boys. His heart sank. All of them? The family curse must have been passed down through his own line for nature to have been so selective. Four of them... One lost for whatever reason, and while he spared a moment to mourn for the stillborn (he had no idea his mate had already devoured it), he was thankful more had not been lost considering their circumstances.

There was a beat before he realized what she'd named their children. One. Two. Three. Four. "YOU NAMED THEM AFTER NUMBERS!?" He knew enough of their language to know what those were. "That's not creative at all!" She could do better than that, he knew. Hell, she gave every new wolf who entered their number a new name almost instantly upon meeting them. She'd known the children for just as long and they came numbered. Oh dear god. He'd forgotten he'd mated the swamp monster.

...and so the bear gave birth to the fox. It was not so apparent yet; his fur, darkened by the fluid he had been surrounded by and his mother's tongue, was sleeked to his body and had not yet revealed his colors. What was apparent was that he was strikingly smaller than those who came before him and the one who came after, as one would expect of a fox among wolves (or bears). He was the classic runt among those who lived, and were it not for the male adornment between his legs, he'd fit the profile of a female.

He squeaked softly as he breathed his first breaths, but soon was quieted as he found his place at his mother's belly. He was pressed against one of his brothers as he suckled, finding warmth and contentment.

His holler from outside was barely registered. Her little blobs of children looked like nothing but that to her; numbers were, truly, the most fitting. The alpha female loosed an exhausted yawn as she observed the little ones near to her. Two were quiet, two were not. The mother lapped at them, in a pleased mood but all that had gone well, but still miserable from the aches and pains she had suffered throughout. Tonravik thought she smelled blood... yes, definitely blood. Not her own, but of the meat he had hunted.

Tonravik was incredibly hungry, but moreso spent from the labor she endured in expelling five children from her (four that survived). While she was tempted to move toward the food, her instinct dictate she lay here and give her cubs the colostrum they needed to nourish them. She could not even reply. Her cubs were clean and suckled hungrily... that was all she needed to know presently.

She turned to inspect them briefly before she would drift into sleep. They moved hungrily and latched onto her; the feeling was strange, and she was sensitive to it. Did she enjoy it...? No. But this she would endure. The dark bear of a wolf sniffed at them and their newness, storing the smells to memory.

He was only vaguely aware of the world around him. There was fur and warmth—that was comforting. There was dirt and cold—that was unpleasant. Malrok continued to drink the warm milk that spilled from his mother, unaware that his siblings were doing the same. In time, he would realize who and what they were in his life. For now, they were merely occasional competition, and Malrok was determined to be on top. When he could drink no longer, he detached from his mother's teat and began to seek a comfortable pose. Doing so out of the womb was decidedly difficult, though his tiny baby brain couldn't make the comparison.

No reply came from the depth of her den. Only the mewing of a few different voices which he could not associate when any of the numbers she'd given them. Was that Malrok? Or Sitamut? His ears lowered for a moment, curious before he craned them forward to see if he might possibly be able to ear any more from inside. Were they eating? Were they squirming? Oh god. Had she sat on one of them already?

He paced out of both excitedness and nervousness. The puppies were here. Four of them. Four boys. One day, this pack would be swimming in testosterone, but until then he had four children to train to be strong young males. Well... just kidding. For now all he could do was tend to his mate and see to it that she had all she needed to get them through the beginning stages of life. Oh how he wanted to charge in there and help with that, but as was true to his gender his role was out here. He was their first line of fangs and defense. He could do that.

He could also see to it that their mother was fed. He shifted from the mouth of the cave towards the stockpile of creatures he'd collected in his own anxiousness during the birthing process. One by one he shifted each corpse from the outside to just inside the corners of their den so they might be easily accessible when Tonravik found within her the energy to move once more. Satisfied with this, he moved, lowering his body to lay just outside the entrance of the birthing den to listen not only to the wilds, but the coos of the little ones just inside.

He suckled with abandon. If he had more than one speed for procuring his milk, no one would know, for he was stuck in high gear and filled his belly quickly. Perhaps too quick, for as soon as he turned his head and the teat plucked free from his mouth, he let out a burp that brought with it a white froth to dress his muzzle. He pulled himself forward, and started to rub his face into the first thing that he came into contact with - Malrok. Sufficiently clean, or perhaps too tired to make more of an effort, he immediately fell asleep with his nose shoved into his brother's side. So much so, that he occasionally snorted as he drew his breath through Malrok's fur.

He didn't know his name, didn't know he was technically a number, and didn't care. What he cared about was food, and warmth. He had both right now and was a sated creature, settling at his mother's teat until he had engorged himself on milk, drips and drops spilling from the corners of his mouth. Finished, he shifted his way into the living, breathing pile of cubs with much squirming, though still absent of voice. His first squeaks and whimpers would not come until the next day or so, but he managed without, laying his sausage-like body among his brothers before promptly falling asleep.

He ate until he was full and then some. Still too young to realise when he was full and when he was not, Sitamat continued suckling until suddenly he felt a strange sensation. He paused, unaware of everything else around him — his father's shock regarding their names, his mother's curious inspection of them, his siblings feeding beside him — before the pressure in his stomach released as a satisfied burp. He didn't allow any of the liquid to spill as his brothers had done, surprisingly neat for a newborn, flicking his tongue around his lips as he detached from the teat.

The effort had already exhausted him and, drowsily, the youngest surviving cub let his body fall in among the other bundles of fur, face pressed against the warmth of Tonravik's belly.

Tonravik watched as one by one, the brothers released and fell upon one another tiredly. All was quiet, even outside. Exhausted from the effort, she watched for a couple minutes longer and when all seemed well, she placed her muzzle upon the earth. It was strange, hearing their quiet snores. Four more noisemakers in the world. Even despite her tiredness, it took her longer to fall asleep. When one of the cubs started, she would alertedly look to them... but they were fine. In time, Tonravik did fall asleep, her own breathing joining that of her sons.

Malrok squirmed around some more, trying to find just the right position for sleeping. And while he never did find it, eventually he became too drowsy to care. Unable to hear or see, it was easy for him to quickly succumb to sleep once he was reasonably comfortable. It would be at least an hour before he awoke, squeaking and wanting for more food, but for now he drifted into that dreamless active sleep that was the way of a newborn wolf cub.

The mewing and tender noises from inside the den eventually quieted in the thralls of sleep. Iqniq listened as well as he could, turning one ear towards the den and another outwards as he divided his attention between his mate and their bundles of joy and the outside world.

He was not yet comfortable with this new home. Fresh and mostly uncharted, there were a lot of unknowns that could threaten these new lives. He knew, without certainty, that the rest of the pack was hard at work, further securing and patrolling their borders to help ensure the future of the pack. He trusted them. And with that trust, he lingered, keeping guard as the rest of his family lost themselves to sleep.

His head would eventually turn, and no more snorts would interrupt the peace that now befell the den and its inhabitants. One by one they all succumbed to rest. The third born would not stir any more until he was compelled to feed. For now, he slept deeply, nestled against the warmth of his mother and secure between his brothers. If he could dream, he would have dreamt of endless possibilities, of what role a fox could play among the savage bears and other powerful creatures that now claimed the Spire. He would have dreamt of his own potential. But alas, he could not dream these things; not yet.

Settling amongst the other lumps of fur (four small lumps and one really big lump), the first of the brood found himself content and comfortable. The mother-lump stilled as did the others and one by one, they seemed to fall asleep with ease. For now, he hungered no more, though that would surely change in just a short amount of time. He remained as quiet as he had since his first breath, succumbing to the feeling of heaviness, his head resting atop one of his brothers'.

He did not immediately fall asleep once nestled between in amongst his brothers, for the various scents and sensations that begged for his attention kept him awake out of pure discomfort. Already, he had forgotten about his time in the womb and did not long for it. His only desires for the moment were primal — sleep, food and warmth. Two of the three had been satisfied and, with a tired yawn, the youngest (but certainly not the smallest) of the litter nuzzled into the warm fur of a sibling's back and fell into a content sleep.