Little Goat Mountain hitchhiking

To some, Athalia might have been considered an easy baby. Boring, even; the furthest thing from a crier, even when she felt pain, such as when the blunt claws of her siblings stabbed at her skin, or when she had been asleep for so long her stomach surged with hunger. Sleep, drink, sleep, drink; a continuous cycle, one spent primarily by the wayside.
And ever vivid were her dreams. Colors she could not yet identify, muffled sounds that were felt more than heard. And always, always, there were unwolven things. Birds, deer, bears, snakes; things she did not understand, shell-shocked primal eyes that stared back at her, and those eyes she could not escape from. She only knew she was awake when they vanished.
But today was different.
Today, it had been a rabbit that gnawed at her ears and held a chunk of one within its disgusting pearled maw. But when she awoke, her eyes shocked cold as she was met with not the beckoning call of nothing, but the stone floor of her den and the stormclouds that made up her siblings.
She does not blink. Rather obviously, she stares; widely, attempting to force the colors she knew in her head to come into her vision, and yet they did not. A rare vocalization from her comes in the form of a disgruntled hiccup.
And finally, she settles back down and closes her eyes again.