Redhawk Caldera Hands off, no trash talk, no back walk

There it was again! That damn invisible assailant. Little Whip squirmed under his father's touch again, but this time, to a much lesser extent. This was his life now, he guessed: getting touched by strange objects and touching strange objects in turn was just another factor it seemed. It was of no matter or importance however, because a few seconds later the strange sensation was driven from Whip's incredibly young mind.

His attention shifted back to mother, most notibly, to finding the teet he had lost in his surprise. He rooted around blindly for a moment before latching on once more for seconds.