Bearclaw Valley should we be dancing with all these madmen?

welcome to the world babies!

For several days Ikkalrok had lingered in demanded isolation. Now and then she tolerated the presence of her mate, but the night prior she had chased him away with fangs and body that would not take no for an answer. Feral as she was, in the precluding hours of birth she was a shade more animalistic if such a thing were at all possible.

She lay in the whelping den when the hour of it all had come. Ancient, primal roots guided her. No spirits, no gods—nothing but her body, her mind. Hours more it took for it to yield anything, and when it did there were only two small, meager things to show for it. She cleaned them, obeying the whim of her own instinct... but once it was all done, she looked upon them and felt rather unimpressed. Weak things. One blow would be all it took to end them.

This who had she been, once? Who they all had been?

So, all began weak. Some remained so all their life.

Her ears pricked as she heard them squeal and she was much too tired herself to regard them beyond ensuring they were not dying. No maternal instinct clung to her heart, but she felt the role of protector nonetheless and she rest her head alongside them. Ikkalrok, then and there, made no bid to call for @Revui this hour. He would know now was not the time to disturb her, or he would learn.

Every story starts somewhere. In this case, it is at the bottom of a deep dark well.

He is not alone here, and somehow he knows that. Reaching out with every inch of himself, twisting one way or another, kicking, punching, causing all manner of discomfort to the vessel that contains him. There is the distant, ever-present rumble of thunder; it quickens on occasion, becomes a boundless drum that reverberates through every cell of his being, and sometimes dies away to a nearly perfect quiet. There is always something there, though. A constant pressure, as if he is drowning without end. It isn't unpleasant. Warm, self-contained, constant.

Things change rapidly, especially so when one lacks a sense of timing. He does not know that in his dreamless sleep he is being built in to a shape, or that his shifting body disrupts the life beside him (or the vessel housing them). When he next hears the rushing of water it is too late - he is held aloft by the current, lifted from the nowhere place and carried elsewhere.

Slick, cold, and glimmering — he arrives with a plunge in to dirt, fighting the cold with twitching limbs, wriggling against the earth as if he has been reeled out of the river and deposited here, to suffocate, more fish than boy. He spits something from his little mouth at the same time that a warm tongue drags across his face, cleaning fluids from his nose. He cries; mourning the loss. The air tastes bitter but he drinks it in and soon enough, the boy will have forgotten of the nowhere place.

He tucks in against the undulating belly of his mother, lured by the warmth, and sleeps.

cameo!

his birthday had come and gone. merrick, granted the age of full adulthood, but a scarred boyking and father granted before. he licked at his lips, glanced toward the borders.
ursus was silent these days. merrick much preferred the chaos. toad had gone, and the bearwolf longed for the fierce company of the pretty boy.
he followed senses through the ferns, thickly interlaced branches embracing him next, kicked a stone idly upon the path, and then all once grew very still.
something here. it reminded him of the scent that had hung round the blackbird's den for a long time, that his mouth had tasted of for just the same length of time.
but this time, there would be no dog to kill.
a curl of his lip; merrick hunted about until he found the place where the wife of the mountain man made her den. merrick did not dare come close; his own beloved had left the mark of her warning clear. but harvestman, bruin-witch — he hovered in the treeline and stared at the place.

The world was a cruel, unforgiving place, and Astyanax was very suddenly made all too aware of that fact. In a rude awakening, he is jostled from his endless non-sleep and unceremoniously tossed upon the ground, becoming a dark mound of slicked back fur gasping for breath. He is large for a newborn, though that would come as no surprise given his parents. A great warmth trails along his body and clears his airways, and after taking his first breaths, the boy releases a cry that reveals a set of healthy lungs.

He writhes and squirms as the cold air hits his skin, tiny puppy legs flailing on their own accord. He is oblivious to the brother placed at his side, of the look of indifference their own mother gave them, of the wraith lurking outside. He only wants for warmth, for comfort, and he finds such in the form of a teat nestled in amongst the fur of Ikkalrok's belly. Greedily, the newborn latches on, finally placated as he drinks his fill before falling into a deep sleep beside his sibling.

He came upon Merrick first, lingering where his trail crept towards the pit where the woman slept, and emerged from a copse of angled trees behind him. He lumbered forth and then planted himself beside his leader. Revui held no desire to witness whatever was transpiring within that darkness, and only glanced to the den mouth when his senses alerted him to the dull thuds of something dropped, then the almost tantalizing smell of wet fur, viscera, and his own hunger. Beside him probed Merrick, and for the majority of this event he wondered if they might enjoy sharing another rousing game of chase, or catch, or bloodsport. He remained ignorant to the true seriousness of the moment.