Bearclaw Valley dream-land

writhing, writhing — like some kind of slug (albeit dry and fuzzy) she continues to slide away from her mother. she has no sense of the growing light but can feel an empty coolness, a change from the warmth of the den. things are different, she is scared, whimpering,

and she bumps into one of her father's paws, coming to an abrupt halt.

Avicus makes an infantile sound of surprise, then falls silent. slowly, her mouth opens and then closes gingerly on one lump of flesh she'd later know as a toe. with no real teeth as of yet, she gums it, exploring the taste. it is different from the teat; no sustenance comes from suckling.

it tastes of newness, of everything she has never sensed before. in the moments to come, she may become frustrated with the lack of milk. for now, she is too curious to care.