Hideaway Strath When the party begins!

existence was a fragile concept; hindering upon mere chance — and it certainly didn't register in the witchling's still developing brain. she existed as a seedling, growing from a seed to a bean, to the tiny pup existing in her amniotic sac; feeding her unknowingly the nutrients she needed. if there is discomfort in the process of being birthed; it is but a fleeting moment; there and gone like the rapid fluttering of a hummingbird's wings.

the oilslick dream-like state she's thus far existed in is gone; as is the warmth, temporarily as she is torn free from what remained of her amniotic sac by her mother's eager teeth.

pelage wet and unable to regulate her own body temperature the witchling draws in her first breath and lets it out in a wail; the only way she knows to state her discomfort. at what she perceives to be cold. at the strange feeling in her stomach that she will, in time, come to learn as hunger. blind and deaf and aware of her wiggly body in the same way one is vaguely aware of their arm when it has fallen asleep.

the smooth of arlette's tongue against her back is immensely and immediately soothing and the witchling bumbles and fumbles her way with guidance of arlette to her mother's side where she nestles; burying her face into the downy-soft fur she finds there. 

awash with comfort and safety — though the witchling has no names for those feelings either — she gums, slickin random pieces of arlette's fur with puppy spit until mulberry finds her mark and lets out a surprised mewl 'round her mother's teat as warm, sweet mothers milk is drawn into her mouth.

her surprise, like everything else thus far, does not last long and mulberry begins to suckle in earnest.