Hideaway Strath the teeth of the eye of a storm

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Roarke stirs awake abruptly with a sharp intake of breath, front paws giving a twitch kicking out at his mother. His head rises and then rolls and he lets out a small near inaudible squeak as he tries to get his bearings, disoriented despite that he is blind and deaf to the world. He knows when he is awake and when he is sleeping in the same way he knows when he is hungry. It is a base, primal instinct. Survival. He feels the warm lash of tongue against him as Lotte bathes him and he lets out a wail of protest, struggling and huffing loudly in the hopes that bath time would end forthwith. Roarke demands it in the wordless way he can make his demands but his demands are overridden. He is grateful to be cleaned of urine, satisfied that it no longer stains his hindquarters — as it is he has already forgotten that he has peed himself at all — and all he knows is that he doesn’t want a bath. Already, he’s forgotten that his uncle Dagfinn had given him a bath previously. His newborn memory is not very good and if he cannot feel it constantly then it is easily forgotten as the next and newest sensation presents itself to him.

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