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

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.