Golden Glade brush strokes on a canvas of souls

as far as  births go, well -- orr's is not a particularly climactic one. his still develping brain dimly notes the shift from warm and wet to cold and conscious, sort of, and forces his mouth open into a shrill protest that lasts only as long as it takes for him to find a teat. once sated, he droops in place, succumbing easily to sleep, oblivious still to the prescence of the world around him.