Dragoncrest Cliffs A million stars

The fates did not see fit to see the child with sunset-kissed fur into the world when the sun still slumbered long hours, and the cold whipped down from the northern peaks. So instead of immediately following her elder brother, who emerged wrapped in a pale cloak of snowy down from the departing Winter, Blixen remained until the time rolled over and the season passed unceremoniously into spring. She knew little of the world until, suddenly, her body hit the chilly ground and the fetal sack surrounding her was lapped away from her mouth and nose by her mother's frenzied tongue. The air was biting, and the first breath she drew was spent on an enthusiastic wail of surprise and displeasure.

Blixen squawled and cried, using every square inch of her tiny little lungs to annouce her displeasure at the unfortunate circumstances that landed her in this hellscape of assaulting tongues and gentle nudges. She couldn't see; couldn't hear, and felt no greater emotion than that of frustration. But it slowly began to abate as she realized her untempered senses were sending tiny sparks of pleasure from the depths of her developing mind at the attention. Belatedly she realized—she liked the warm thing that cleaned her off, and coated her in a scent that would soon become her identifier.

Of course, it was impossible for her to convey this, but she did resume crying (albeit softer this time) when Wildfire's attention turned to the next sibling in line. Artaax squirmed beside her, and the tactile sensations that he sent through her from his movements inspired her to wiggle forward until her nose collided with Wildfire's stomach. Her mouth opened and closed silently as she worked an invisible teat, unaware that her instinct was telling her to eat, until her mother shifted in such a way that her tiny little lips closed around a nipple. She took to it with a vigor and worked the life-giving milk from the fleshy knob while entirely ignorant of the merciful death of her eldest brother.