Emberwood the black hills, the bad lands, the calloused east

the third to enter their brave new world, atwood's birth is not particularly remarkable. easily he slips out, a small, runted child, the finery of his coat hidden by viscera that paints him a deep ruddy brown. instinct opens his mouth, his first few breaths a series of plaintive squeaks. but instinct -- and mother's grasp -- pulls him within suckling range and as soon as he's latched onto her belly, he settles down, oblivious to the other small bodies beside him.