Hideaway Strath we call our war machines 'women'

it happened in the quiet; the opening of her eyes — days ago now.

though the initial blur of foreign shapes was startling, mulberry does not fear the shadows of her life. she has no name for any of them — for the shadowy shape that gives her sweet mothers' milk, for the other large shadowy shape that comes and goes ( though is nevertheless constant and comforting ), nor the plump shadows of her brothers.

they surround her with warmth — and sometimes annoyance as one of her brothers gums at her tail or paw or still floppy ear leaving it coated in a thick glob of slobber ( gross! ) — she is content to know that they are hers.

in truth, she gives them idle thought most days. her focus is on her self, on the ever blossoming awareness of herself ( still yet to be explored in any sort of depth ) and her rapidly developing body. her sense of smell was still weak, her eyesight horrendously poor; still deaf to the world 'round her but nevertheless curious about the rumblings of the large shadows.

after a nap lulled upon her with a full belly of warm, sweet mothers' milk, the witchling wakes and stretches and on wobbly and unsteady legs attempts to stand. she doesn't think about it; just that it feels natural even as untested legs quiver and give out and she flops onto something ( thankfully ) fluffy. whether it was a parent or sibling she wasn't yet sure.