Moonspear aippaapak ⋰

Maggak watches from the safe nestle of her little face in the peach-fuzz of brother's shoulder. Anânsiak — which she could not say in full just yet, so from her, it sounds more like anâmsag — busies herself with a drying pelt, a process new to her widened eyes. She hears the soft hum of melodic vocals, something pleasing and warm, and it takes all her power not to doze right then and there.
She, then, parts from brother to scoot closer on stubby stilted legs, ears flopping up before falling back down again. Whad'ya doin? she asks, wonder plastered all over her chubby cheeks.