Ouroboros Spine and you bet your life it rains

Lótë fretted, as much as any new mother, but despite how quiet her children were — save for her vocal Vairë who was already proving unabashed in voicing her emotions — they were active, healthy. All but Wilwarin, who was often lethargic and had to be roused constantly to feed even when she seemed disinterested in eating. 

She busied herself with her brood, swooping to gently nose at Lómion’s inky lips — whispering kisses against her firstborn’s sooty muzzle as he explored his surroundings. Her lips swelled into a sunbeam of bright joy, a full-fledged laugh -- a rarity -- breaking from them when Inkalorë startled their siblings and set the whole litter to crying in discomfort.

”Oh, my loves. All is well,” she promised between amused chuckles, bending and nosing the little ones so that they might nurse if they were hungry or just wanted the comfort of the motion. Her fawn muzzle swept gently over the pudgy, squirming bodies of fuzz — breathing in their soft scent as she swept her lips along their spines and shoulders, their tiny heads of down. 

For a moment, she allowed her attention to fall entirely on the youngest of her cubs — nosing Wil, inspecting her delicately for any injuries.