Sawtooth Spire ding, ding, we have a winner

Family only, of course.

As usual, Malrok was fussing again. He swatted at a brother, although he was unaware which one it was. Blind, mostly deaf, and lacking motor skills, he was not very useful to anybody or anything. In fact, the one thing he did have the hang of was squalling, which he did whenever things weren't going his way. It usually started innocently enough, just little whimpers of discontent. Eventually, if his comfort was not restored, Malrok would begin to mewl and snort. Beyond that, it was straight up crying, rolling, and generally doing anything he could to get attention.

He was at it again. It had been a little over 48 hours since she had added him into this world. He presently lived to pluck at the thin chords of her nerves. Her ears were perked, but she mostly ignored the squalor he produced. Tonravik would not reward him for it—but of course, there were instances where he did yell for good reason, such as being unable to get to a teat, or needing help to defecate. Having done the latter but a short time ago, and also knowing he was close enough to a teat to latch on to it if that were the reason for his upset, the mother glared to the outward hole of the den.

She rose and trotted outside for a brief moment. All but Malrok slept, and she needed a quick drink; the stream was close enough where nothing could enter in her twenty-second long (if that) absence. Iqniq was likely patrolling and securing the borders, and Tonravik was swift to enter back into the den and wrap herself around all four bodies.

The great warm entity departed, causing Malroks cries to intensify both in volume and in pitch. He squirmed about, over, under, and through his mass of three brothers, likely pushing them apart in the process. He was nearing the den's opening when she returned and put him back into place with the rest. But the wolf pup was unsatisfied. He continued to fuss, whimpering and stepping on his brothers' heads, clawing to get away from them only to cry about not having enough warmth. His back legs, mostly useless, kicked at the open air and dirt beneath him as he continued to wail. He had come into this world quietly, so perhaps he was making up for it (ten times over).

She returned to the persistent wailing of her second-born cub. Tonravik gripped at his scruff—where he drew very still—and then placed him between her forelegs. She nestled him near the crook of her armpit, but made sure his face was near the open air. Her own muzzle went downwards as she tested his new spot, wondering if this movement would cause him to settle for even an hour. Tonravik could handle the cub, but did often wish for him to be as silent as he had come into this world. But he was boisterous; she took it as a sign of strength. The alpha female could hardly wait for him to grow larger and be able to handle his vocal chords—she would never, in her life, miss these days. Her tolerance of the blind, deaf, and dumb was only as high as it was because they were a part of her... otherwise she would have eaten them all. The number extended to four.

He squeaked when she picked him up, though he could not do anything to physically protest. Malrok was placed on the ground then, testing the world around him. He turned his wobbly head one way and it bumped into mother. His head turned the other way, and he was met with the same thing. Malrok then began to investigate forward, pugged nose sniffing out the open air around him. He got no more than three baby paw pushes forward before he bumped into her foreleg again and squeaked in protest. But he'd bumped it high, rather than low, and now began to attempt the scramble over top of the large (to him) leg.

The woman heard no loud, wailing protests. She could sense confusion in the way he moved and tested things out... and faraway, she heard the distant roll of thunder. Instinctively, she grew rigid. Could it be the storm...? Her ears perk forward, waiting to hear howls of warning, or something to that effect. There was nothing... and Tonravik chalked the sounds to a typical thunder storm as opposed to the untamed one that had wrought so much havoc to all of the wilds.

She rest her muzzle on the ground again while her son attempted to adventure over her leg. Her large foreleg was enough to deter him at this point in time from crawling over, and his inability to maneuver the entirety of his body all at once would be his downfall here. So she fretted not over his success, which she presumed impossible... but, she could not help but watch him still, even though she was compelled to close her own eyes.

The boy continued to struggle, rotund body poorly supported by four weak legs. But all the attempting in the world could not make up for his lack of muscle definition, and he would not make it over the mountain that was his mother's foreleg. He gave up on that endeavor, deciding instead to explore along her extended limb rather than trying to go over it. This was much more successful, as Malrok did not need to climb over anything except the flat earth of the den floor. And so he wormed his way further along her leg, unwittingly getting closer to her toes.

The (thus far) indomitable foreleg. She watched with disappointment as he fell. Shame. Tonravik had thought for a minute she had produced miracle children. It appeared not. She watched as he wormed his way forward, toward her toes. She pointed her paw so it would round like a pinball machine, and then shifted the other foreleg to cage him between her forelegs. Tonravik kept her head high, watching him above, feeling utterly omnipotent of her presently lumbricus-like son.

He continued to scoot himself along her leg, nose touching it every so often to investigate. Things were uneventful up until he got to the pads of her feet, which had a different texture. He sniffed at them, soft nose touching rough toes. His sense of touch was very much alive and well. He continued to nose her pads and toes, digging into the crevices with his pugged muzzle. One of her longer hairs stuck into his nose, and he sneezed. There, his fun ended, as he began to wail again, crying out for help. The sneeze had been unpleasant, convulsing his whole body. Delicate front paws attempted to swish across his own muzzle out of pure instinct, though his lack of mobility once again proved a hinderance to clearing the tickle from his nose. Mal sneezed again, more violently this time.

Tonravik watched as he probed at her paw; his touch was gentle and like a feather, causing her to feel tickled. Not liking the feeling, she thought she might draw him backward when he began to sneeze and wail. The mother grimaced and first licked his body before he sneezed violently this time, causing her to withdraw sharply. Tonravik scooted him around and dragged her tongue across his face to rid his button nose of mucus.

His mouth opened and closed mechanically as she bathed him. Her scent was one he would not—could not—forget for the rest of his life. She was life. The urge to sneeze was gone, though he had lost his exploring arena for the time being. But it was no matter. Even the fussiest of puppies had to get drowsy eventually, and Malrok had been pushing the upper limits of his energy in one go. Soothed, however temporarily, the boy began to breathe more slowly, consciousness drifting away from him as he fell asleep. After some time, he began to twitch in his sleep, dreaming of exploring the world around him in the only capacity that he had experienced.