Stavanger Bay Little Angels wrapped in fur

Jorunn had been delighting in fantastical dreams of warmth and sweet mother's milk — for he did not have much of anything else to dream of having most of his critical senses either dulled or not developed yet at all. His life was easy: eat, sleep, poop and being general cute. There was nothing overly hard about any of those things, all of them coming rather naturally to the legend. It was simplistic, his current way of life. Occasionally there was something dramatic, when Flóki would kick him, or if Jorunn himself would tumble unintentionally over one of his siblings...or worse yet when they would tumble over him. Aside from these things it was rather stale. Where was the adventure he was promised? What kind of adventures was he supposed to have when he was still blind as a bat and as deaf as a ...church mouse? Even his sense of smell was dull, though this was not precisely what anyone might consider a bad thing garnering the fact that sometimes defecation could be mighty rancid business especially for newborns.

The legendary Berserker infant let out a small coo when he felt something stroke along the length of his spine, the feel of soft fur brushing against his own plush coat, the tickle of whiskers against his skin causing him to squirm impatiently, bringing him to as much consciousness as he was capable of being currently. He was awake and poked at the nearest plump thing beside him — decidedly one of his siblings — to see if they, too, were awake.