Sawtooth Spire we are nothing but waddling colonies of tiny little monsters

@Tonravik

The fox was roaming the den after an attempt to rouse his brothers to play had failed. His previous encounter with a beetle had led him to seek another, or some other creature that crawled around the dirt that could provide entertainment. Finding none, his blue eyes fell to his mother's face. Her chin was laid on the ground between her paws. Ping paused to consider this for a moment, and then marched toward her. Tail wagging, he brushed the side of face against her muzzle and lifted a paw to bat at her nose.

Tonravik rest, but her eyes were upon them.

Only a couple of more days...

She could not wait. The urge to go now was there, but not so strong as her urge to still remain and protect and look after the babes was. Tonravik could see they were raring to escape... and she also knew her mate was willing to assist them. The mother tried not to blame him, but could not understand it on a personal level. She couldn't wait to get away from them... but, admittedly, they were becoming more entertaining as they could move and babble now. They didn't make much sense, but one day they would.

It was the fox who came and approached her now. She watched as he, perhaps now the size of her broad muzzle, slide beside it and pawed at her face. Tonravik, ever a bully, simply thrust her muzzle toward the frail body in hopes of sending him downward. It was a dog eat dog world out there, and Tonravik would not coddle them at any point. Fortunately, the cubs were used to this roughness from her at this point. She was gentle when need be, but now was not one of those times. Of course, the mother never needed to use any measure of her legitimate strength... that, perhaps, helped them, too.

He wanted to play. He would have accepted a cuddle too. But he got neither, because his mother was a brute of a bear and was bent on preparing them for them for life. He was used to this, but while he had established himself as quiet and patient, in this moment it was bored frustration that over took him. She thrust her muzzle at him, bowling him over without effort, and he retaliated with the quickness of a coiled snake. He was on his feet and lunging; his milk teeth were fully erupted and sharp, and he aimed them at her muzzle in a purposeful nip. If she wanted to play rough, fine, but god darnit they were going to play. He was not going to just go lay down.

As her son rose he lashed toward her, as quick as an aggravated rattlesnake. Tonravik was used to the creatures of that sort, and her own head lurched upward so he would meet empty space and fall forward with the weight of his move. Tonravik aided in the journey gravity would take him on, again nosing his rear-end while he went face-first. This was her way of playing; it always had been. She was gentle, but rough all the same. Tonravik rumbled, ears pitching forward, dark eyes not once leaving his form. Tonravik knew how those milk-teeth pinched... and should he become too chomp-happy, he would earn a pinch back. The mother would teach them restraint as she had been taught: force.

His teeth clicked in air, and his momentum carried him forward and down, aided by another shove from his mother, until his fox-like snout was abraded by dirt. His frustration mounted, and he exhaled in a sharp snort. He renewed his efforts, gathering his paws beneath him he sprang at her again, going this time for a leg; something she could not so easily pull away from him. His play was augmented with a determined ferocity, but still his strike was restrained. His teeth sought purchase but not blood. He had, at least once, bested his brothers in their play, and had been thrilled to do so. But his mother? She remained the unconquerable, and he was not keen to see she kept that title (however misplaced his goals were at this time).

The mother doubted any of her cubs had true control over the strength of their fangs yet, but she had been reprimanding them when they probed at her with them. It seemed he had learned, for as he lurched for the thing nearest to him—her foreleg—he did so without thrusting his tiny fangs into it. Tonravik watched him with some measure of interest, before her muzzle swept downward to press into his hinds to attempt to sweep him off of his feet. The mother was eager to show him the importance of remaining on all fours, and although against her he would have a difficult time with it (and perhaps it would take him a while to comprehend this lesson), she was not one to waste time.

He seized her in his mouth and wrapped his forelegs around as best he could (which was not that well). For a brief moment, in his mind he was gaining the upper hand, but then she swept her muzzle down and toppled him like he was a mere sapling and she was a northern gale. This was, of course, more or less true. However, the third born was not deterred, he was quick to right himself him and attack her again, but this time he broke a cardinal rule that he had not yet firmly learned. His frustration reached a peak, and this time when he jumped at her muzzle, his teeth were bared and they did seek to bite into her as hard as he could providing she did not move away, and if she did... well, whatever else was in reach his tiny teeth would seek.

She admired his spirit. Her tail beat against the earth as he rose again, coming at her with fangs. She withdrew her muzzle, knowing the sharp points of those fangs did not feel good and were altogether unpleasant to experience. It would not do as much damage as a legitimate attack against a full-grown wolf would, but it would still break skin and bleed if it hit. As her head lifted, Tonravik showed him a row of teeth. "Naga," she reprimanded in a low growl. Even if he did not understand, she would teach. But she again went for him, her muzzle sweeping around him and maneuvering to bump gently into the side of his frame.

That move was a bust. Not just for the reprimand he received, but for the realization that it did nothing to aid his cause; it was a broken tool not worth having in his box, at least not when dealing with his mother. In fact, as she toppled him over again and once more he reclaimed his feet, he came to understand that he could not win. Not right now. His frustration dulled into resignation. With that idea out of his head for the time being, he padded forward. His ears laid upon his skull, and his tail drooped and partially tucked. His held his body low, and moved to press himself against her chest.

Tonravik watched as he realized he had lost the battle, his body meek and submissive. As he pressed against her chest, Tonravik accepted the gesture and put her own head down beside him. Tonravik could see her son was a quick learner, despite his youth, and even now his size made him quick. He was not the ruddy red of his father, but the red of a fox kit... it was this she lamented over, a mother who believed her son would be forever alone but (or, seemed to, to her) had such great potential otherwise. At the very least, he would have a place among them. Not every man went on to create their own family... She thought too far ahead, but her mind could not help but drift in that direction when it came to her cubs. It was no matter; she and her mate would do all they could for him. And when he was able to, he would take it from there.

forever alooone... naw watch he'll get all the ladies ;) lmfao

His mother accepted his peace offering, and he seized the moment to cuddle in against her as she laid her head down beside him. In contrast to the bear, the fox preferred touch. He liked to be snuggled against his family, and generally kept close to them. It was not that he was not or could not be independent and self-sustaining, but his social instincts were strong. He wanted to be a part of his family and the pack's world, and likewise, to have them a part of his own. How this would serve him down the road remained to be seen. For now, he was content where he was, and it took no time for him to drift into a nap.