Blackfeather Woods pissukpok

Her vision had become clearer by the day, and now she knew many faces. Her pale blue gaze darted around the den when she awoke, and Tunerk observed her sleeping mother, and then her sleeping brothers. Moonlight spilled into the denmouth, and next her gaze drifted toward the pale stream of light, fractured by dust motes. The way they moved captured her short attention span, and Tunerk rose onto four legs. Thus far in her life, this was as far as she had gotten before the inevitable tumble—but she had yet to be deterred.

Likely because she had forgotten about the pain that resulted from her many face plants.

One unsteady step, two unsteady steps!—these bled into fourfivesixseven—step eight brought some semblance of stability, and step eight was all she needed. There before her was something that drifted downward, and Tunerk (without the instinct to hunt, yet) found herself wanting to have it for herself. She moved to grab at it with her milk-teeth, and though she did not see it the thing spiralled away. Tunerk sampled her success with her tongue, as she often did, and there was nothing there. Bamboozled, she stepped aside (looking as though she had three drinks too many), looking around for what she had missed.