Sleeping Dragon governed by sound reason and true religion

The boy had unintentionally cut back on the amount of milk being ingested during each feeding, as well as decreased the speed at which he'd consumed it. He didn't know what caused the pain in his stomach, but he knew that the milk didn't help it—so maybe it made the sensation worse? Hvit hadn't the slightest clue, of course, but instincts alone continued to control his little body for the time being. Survive, avoid pain, and prevent injury. He could do those things, for the feelings that triggered certain actions insisted that he could. Thus far, things seemed to be working well for him, too, but little did he know that his own actions were not the only ones to have assisted his health. Never would he, perhaps, unless someday told otherwise; though even if he was eventually told of the situation he'd been in, there was no guarantee he'd believe it or even bother to remember throughout the rest of his life.

During the day, he'd been well enough, or at least more so than usual. His crying had been minimal, eventually having been reduced to a few little sniffles before sleep overcame him. He'd stayed asleep, too, up until the point in which he'd felt a tongue glide across his back. The familiar texture had awoken him, causing his head to raise as he nosed around at the air, seeking the source of his disturbance. Still was he blind, his eyes having yet to open up, and so he was able to do little more than crawl about in an effort to bump into whatever had touched him. Unable to figure out from where it'd come, he'd ended up dragging his body forward until his head had bumped into a leg—or was it a body? It was Gavriel's right forelimb that had earned a little headbutt from the boy, but he could no better tell the limb apart from his sisters' bodies than he could see.