Little Goat Mountain this one doesn't bite

The space within a womb; a trap—that with which has only one escape. The coming of birth. 

Some disdain it, wishing it had never happened and that they had never been set free. But some relish it, taking every second offered to them from the moment they touch the earth to bring meaning to the life given to them. 

That is how Ashkova is born. Not only as a descendant of a great line, the Ostrega's, but as a son who will bear every intention of serving the purpose of which has brought him here. Whatever that purpose may be.

Second to touch the dirt, but first to release a triumphant cry, announcing to those of the world who cared to listen that he had been born. He wanted all to hear it... to feel the powerful ache that he did, and to know that soon it would mold into a different form of potential. 

When it was done, and finally he fell silent, h
Ashkova searched for the warmth that his mother had to provide. And for the sustenance he demanded to comfort his trembling body. A thirsting hunger, now only for milk. But later, one that would feed a hunger for crimson and flesh, unbeknownst to him now as that of his mother's enemies. 

Soon, with his fill, the trembling ceased and the ache subsided. Exhaustion swept over him. And with his pudgy little form curled tight against her belly and around those born alongside him, sleep would take its course.