Blackfeather Woods Ours is a cycle of hatred

As Ramsay aged and grew, so did his curiosity for the things that laid beyond the small, dark world of the den. There were two ways to leave the cave, and the dwarf boy often tested both. The first was an entry leading into the Spiderlings Glen, with its high walls and the enticing rumble of its waterfall. That entry was large and yawning but aptly hidden by a curtain of vines. Ramsay found these to be great playthings. The other entrance was better hidden, a crevice at the back of the cavern leading even deeper underground. He was forbidden from going that way by other members of his pack, but he often wasn't stopped if he went the other way.

Today he popped his head and hunched shoulders out past the vines, blinking wildly as gloomy sunlight filtered down on his raven black scalp. It was colder outside than in the den, sending a shiver down Ramsay's shortened spine, but there was no opiate-addled adult wolf keeping the outside warm. Potema continued to lurk in the den and continued to keep her distance from her cubs, but with many of his milk teeth having blown out of his gums recently and the inclusion of squishy regurgitated meat to his diet, Ramsay hardly noticed her neglect anymore. Her ambient warmth was appreciated, but he could regulate his own now, so though the outside was chilly, it didn't deter him.

Bold as only he could be, the cub wiggled another step forward and plopped his hindquarters clumsily on the ground. It was a comical, if not grotesque, sight: his hind legs, when folded, reached his elbows, and his entire body seemed to hunch in on itself so that he was nothing but head, shoulders and hocks. He barked up at the sky, tongue lolling, and gave his short tail several excited wiggles.

Visual of what Ramsay looks like sitting down.