Little Goat Mountain this one doesn't bite

edit: feel free to join now! prob one post from each puppy, and then possibly a couple posts back and forth between Mira and @Ksura if he joins. lmk if any of yall wanna go about this differently  

In the early hours of August the thirty-first, they came, with a pain that seemed it would last forever until it was suddenly over in what felt like an instant. 

The first was @Athalia . She was dark-furred, like Mira, but the strange man who had made the creation of these pawns possible had left his mark- touches of russet-orange along her pelt, like the color he'd sported at his ruff. It was tiny, delucate. Mira, despite all her lust for war, still maintained her maternal instincts- she was careful as ever as she cleaned the child, and placed her at her side. 

Next was @Ashkova , mostly dark at birth. Grey points hinted that he would lighten in places over time, though he was still too small for her to recognize the distinct markings or even his freckles. She placed him beside Athalia. 

Then came @Amneris - dark with a lighter stomach. Each birth was easier than the last, despite the struggle of it. The final one was @Athamas - he was extra small, and resembled the father, though not all the same. These two she each bathed, and lifted to place beside her stomach. She watched closely, hoping each would find their way to drinking, for she needed them to grow strong. She would nourish them well. And as she looked at them, wordlessly, she named each of them in her mind. 

Four of them, dark-pelted, her own. Somewhere outside the den Ksura likely lingered close to keep watch on the outside world. And afterwards she would rest, feeling quite proud of herself and hopeful for the future to come with her new pawns at her side.

Inside her mother's belly, her mind whips and snaps with malcontent visions of gold and churns with hums and purrs. She dreams of static and crackling sparks, of a godhood much greater than she, and in this dream she is a dancer — as her paws rove over herself, her spindly body while she moves, she can feel and smell the blood. The birds that swoop and swing over her head; the rot inside of her that makes her bones brittle and the flesh of her muscles melt like acid.
Athalia Ostrega was born sick.
And as she slides into the world with a silence and stillness that would worry even the most apathetic of birthgivers, goddammit, she defies all odds, all assumptions, and she twitches. Her foot, at first, a flex of a tiny red-stained toe, and then the muscles above her nose.
And finally, she inhales her first breath of chill mountain air and feels the press of a paw that urges her to seek sustenance. Somewhere out there, the birds, the ones who rise before the first light of dawn, are watching.

The space within a womb; a trap—that with which has only one escape. The coming of birth. 

Some disdain it, wishing it had never happened and that they had never been set free. But some relish it, taking every second offered to them from the moment they touch the earth to bring meaning to the life given to them. 

That is how Ashkova is born. Not only as a descendant of a great line, the Ostrega's, but as a son who will bear every intention of serving the purpose of which has brought him here. Whatever that purpose may be.

Second to touch the dirt, but first to release a triumphant cry, announcing to those of the world who cared to listen that he had been born. He wanted all to hear it... to feel the powerful ache that he did, and to know that soon it would mold into a different form of potential. 

When it was done, and finally he fell silent, h
Ashkova searched for the warmth that his mother had to provide. And for the sustenance he demanded to comfort his trembling body. A thirsting hunger, now only for milk. But later, one that would feed a hunger for crimson and flesh, unbeknownst to him now as that of his mother's enemies. 

Soon, with his fill, the trembling ceased and the ache subsided. Exhaustion swept over him. And with his pudgy little form curled tight against her belly and around those born alongside him, sleep would take its course.

in another lifetime and another place, the soul that had been sealed inside of athamas' body may have been a medic, perhaps a gardener or a therapist. unforetunately god had had a little mix-up in heaven and tossed him here instead. it was unknown what was to become of him now. 

fourth-born, mira's youngest son came into the world with little protest. a meek whimper, and then he was as silent as all he'd known so far. 

yet the cold stone beneath him was an unfamiliar, unwelcome sensation. he craved the heat of the womb. even as he was placed beside other tiny bodies and given milk to drink, he still longed to return to the home he had known since his creation. he seeked out warmth and soon found himself at his mother's side. 

and had athamas known enough, he would've mourned the circumstances of his birth. 

but he knew nothing, so he drank mira's sustenance greedily as soon as he got a taste.