Emberflame Ridge you and i have come way too far to give up in seventeen minutes

Being carried, and having his protests stifled by the bludgeoning scent of fear made Svalinn quiet. He was jostled and swinging, snatched at by gale after gale of unkind wind. He was stiff by the time they'd come to rest, but the disabled whelp quickly found his voice when Kierkegaard's rumbling warmth took over him. Milk! Milk! he began to squeak, his misused cry nothing but a demanding whisper. He began to squirm, feeling bold and invigorated by what he thought was time to feed. Kierkegaard did not carry the heavenly milkscent with him, but it was near— he could tell!— and he worm-wriggled his way towards it in what could be considered the world's slowest hunt.