Neverwinter Forest light years

The world is changed, somehow — and by the time the tiny inkblot gains the vocabulary necessary to express the inexplicable phenomenon that is birth, he will have forgotten the experience entirely. Already he has forgotten life in the womb — that floating, suspenseful period of coming to life — in favor of the new sensations engulfing him in a confusing, dizzying welter. There is pressure — rhythmic, pulsing waves of it — and then — and then…

Eshe’s teeth snip through the amniotic sac and out spills the inkblot, his infinitesimal muzzle parted in a prolonged gasp as his body automatically adjusts to the new, strange world — intrepid, he uses his first precious breath on a shrill and plaintive squeak. Weaker than those not born in times of famine, still the nameless jellybean — as sleek and shiny as a sea lion breaking surface — paddles furiously with his tiny turtle flipper paws. The inkblot finds his rhythm now and fills his lungs with air with the sole purpose of squalling indignation and hunger. His first strong emotion, instinctive and demanding, is need.

Eshe’s tongue, moving in warm and soothing strokes from the crown of his head to the tip of his tail, incites a frenzy in the fragile creature. His head, so heavy — too heavy — bobbles wildly as Eshe’s nose nuzzles him into the insulated fur of her swollen abdomen. He cannot hear the Southern belle’s singsong welcome to the world, but he feels it — smells it. A disembodied picture borne of sensation — teeth, tongue, nose, and belly — Eshe is the first love of his minute-long life. For long moments he continues his hungry tirade, his floppy paws scrabbling for purchase as he props himself against his mother’s flank — and then his wide open mouth bumps against a blunt peak rich with the scent of milk. With savage intensity he latches on, his will to live indomitable — his tiny tail flails like a rudder in a hurricane as his tiny paws push in clumsy rhythm.

For long moments, the world is only Eshe.