Qeya River the moon pleaded: stay

the morning was overcast, but that did not perturb attuaserk as it, perhaps, should have. with his eyes open and his ears open and the wonderful sights and sounds of the world followed in the wake of sharpening sense of smell: he is no longer captivated by the small earthen world that consisted of his mother, malrok and father.

the light that comes from the entrance of the birthing den burns like a beacon on the shore; a siren's call tempting him to clumsily make his way to it to see and hear and smell all he could.

if there was hesitation the very first time he approached the light of day upon the den floor; shrinking back into the safety of his mother's and brother's side ... it is gone by now.

the bravado is back in full force; border-lining a recklessness borne of pure childish innocence as he lingers at the mouth of the den. his side is pressed against the wall, head poking out the yawning mouth at the grand and endless world beyond, trying to make sense of what he sees whilst clinging to the safety of the only home he has currently ever known in his short span of life.