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The young child did not know much of the world around him. He was blind as a bat and thoroughly confused from birth to his current state. Smokestep had not matured much; he was still a tiny and pale figure with limbs that he did not seem to have much control over. There was no sense of sound or sight for the ghost child, but he knew that there was a figure that fed them and tended to them when they needed it. Occasionally, he would feel the cold touch of a stranger’s nose against his small frame and he would shiver out of fear and delight at the sensation that brought life to his body. There was so much he did not understand and much more that did not come instinctually to him. One thing was certain; the woman who fed them was not their mother, and he could tell this much. The hunger that clawed at him was more than enough to get him to nurse from the female, and even curl close to the warmth of her body.
That evening, he found himself wobbling around, limbs smacking into various surrounding objects (that included his unwary siblings). His mouth parted and a quiet little squeak was emitted. It was entirely against his will, but the youngster had very little will to spare at his age. Smokestep made a move to close the short distance that had spread between him and his wet nurse. Parting his mouth in a blind scramble, he hoped to latch to a teat.
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She had no concept of time, no way of understanding the world around her. At best, she was learning the sense of touch and of smell, honing her most basic senses while still in the early stages of development. For now she was vulnerable, no more than a parasitic creature that others could only one day hope would bring honour to her family name. She latched onto the concept of milk and warmth, although she did not know what those things were. They were essentially her whole life, interrupted by odd sensations of tongues, teeth, and other little limbs.
And today, oh today, of all things, she was about to experience something new. Something wet and desperate closed over the entirety of her left back paw. Around it, she could sense an odd pressure. It was enough to startle her, to make her cry out. Her loud, pitiful mewl was drowned out among the various other sounds within the den; the sound of others suckling, her older cousins squabbling, the gentle chatter between the two mother figures that occupied the space with them. Sandpiper was vaguely aware that the one who had carried her in the womb was not with them. The two women smelled different, just a little wrong, but already, the memory of her dam was fading swiftly. By the time she could open her eyes, there would be no doubt she would have no recollection of anything other than what was immediately present.
Her little face scrunching up, she wriggled awkwardly, having not developed enough muscles to flail properly. Nonetheless, she did her best to try and kick with her back legs (the front paws coincidentally moving simultaneously). This would technically result in another first: a fight with her eldest littermate, although she did not know it.