Neverwinter Forest light years

The inky soot sprite, his side tucked against his brother and his arms, nose, and mouth filled with the fluff and comfort that is his mother, notices very little at this stage — he is a tiny blot of instinct, following the demands of his body with little understanding or choice in the matter. Still, the looming presence of his father appears to give him pause, though perhaps it is an illusion; the change in the air or perhaps the minute, barely perceptible shift of his mother’s body to accept her mate’s affectionate overture seem to still the Neverwinter prince’s frantic suckling and kneading as his head quirks without finesse to the side. He moves with the gracelessness of the newly born, his tiny tail flailing about as he turns his face back to the pinpoint of sustenance around which he affixes his tiny mouth, a piping squeak cut off quite suddenly by a babyish coo of pleasure.