Redhawk Caldera A-a-and clean this place up or dungeon!

Once Raven returned to the puppy puddle, Titmouse seemed keen on grappling with her teats and filling his belly. He was rather active for a kid that was only one week old; his little legs didn't support much, but he could wriggle and waddle a little, and ended up crawling over his siblings (and steppin' on some faces) in order to reach the top of the pile and get at Raven.

Instead of falling in to the usual routine of chomp first, drink later, Titmouse managed one targeted nose-dive and pinch, and was drinking without a fuss within moments (likely to the joy of @Raven). He was so thirsty that he just kept on drinking, and drinking, and drinking, holding on as if life depended on it — and even when Raven stood up to try and dissuade him from stuffing himself and let his siblings have a chance, he just held on.

There he was! Titmouse, Titty-Chomper of the Caldera, swinging like the world's tiniest sack of potatos from his sister's poor nip-nop. One must wonder: which is worse? The consistent pinching, or the old Pinch-and-Hang maneuver?

If Phox had noticed one less sibling in the den, he didn't show it. Fidget was rather oblivious to the world, all things considered, though he did have unending curiosity about his surroundings. When he wasn't scooting across the floor exploring every nook and cranny, he was putting anything and everything in his mouth. Hair, tails, teats, dirt, rocks—you name it!

When Raven got up, he had been investigating her toenail, his tiny mouth and tongue glomming (that's totally a real word) it and covering it with slobber. His latest investigation pulled away, and Phox wobble-crawled to the warm spot where Raven had been laying, and his nose bumped into then hanging Titmouse, causing him to sneeze.

He wasn't airborne for long. Tit's hold was firm but he was a small pendulum, and when Raven got moving, so did he. It was enough to cause him to pull on her teat (ye-owch!) and also to slip with his grip. When he felt a bup! to his bottom, the boy kicked his tiny legs and came loose from his pod-like state. He landed squarely atop Phox's head with the bulk of his little gray pebble-body while his own face went smack! against the den floor. This left Titmouse feeling a bit stunned. He was rattled by his fall and completely unaware to the tiny rivulet of blood which had started leaking from his little baby nose — meanwhile, Phox was probably not having a fun time with his face all up in Tit's business. Oops!

A second later, something heavy had fallen onto his head, and Fidget squirmed uncomfortably. He could hardly breathe under his brother, and his tiny pudgy legs flailed until he was able to free his snoot from under his brother's bum. The air was much fresher out here, and he took a few deep breaths to recover from his temporary lack of oxygen.

Fidget's tiny soft paw pads pushed against the floor, trying to free himself from under Screech. Unfortunately, he didn't quite have the strength to do so, even after much struggling and wiggling (something he was very good at). The boy paused to rest for a time, panting as much as a little pupper like himself could.

This was not a comfortable position for either of them. The more Phox wriggled, the more Titmouse shimmied. They were a squirming pile of bodies, but with one dripping blood on to the den floor and the other trying to get a fresh breath of air. At some point Phox must've twisted in to the prime angle because Titmouse was promptly dropped from his perch in to the dust, and he rolled on his chubby belly until he was on his back and his nose got all stuffed up with blood and dust. He squealed and protested with tiny chirps, reaching with his itty-bitty feet to try and smack at his blunt nose; he was trying to free his snout of the smell and the sensation, to no avail. And it wasn't a fun experience -- soon his squeaking turned in to a little squal, then his characteristic screeching.

Although he could not hear his brother's shrieks, Fidget did feel Screech writhing beside him. It was that movement that got his attention and stirred his curiosity. Now that he had caught his breath, Phox crawled over to his brother, his nose coming into contact with Tit's. The smell—blood—was unlike anything he'd ever encountered. Being the curious child that he was, Fidget stuck his tiny tongue out to taste the coppery liquid, well-acquainted with the taste of dirt that also lingered there. Unknowingly, he was lapping up Screech's bloody nose.

He coughed and cried, wiggled a bit, and cried some more. The boy rolled on to his back and found that the weird smell in his nose (the blood) turned in to a weird taste at the back of his throat, and he didn't like it. He screeched and crowed to alert the adults of this discovery as it was so very important! But aside from some slight comfort provided by their nudging or a few licks across his face, Titmouse didn't get any respite from the strangeness. He flumped over in the next moment, free from the lashings of someone's tongue, and spat out a puddle of red sputum.

Fidget batted at his brother with a tiny puppy paw, assuming that all the fuss was because he wanted to play. Eventually, Phox was nudged aside as the adults attempted to soothe the wailing child. Undeterred, the tiny black blob crawled back toward the vibrations he felt in the ground. He arrived just in time for his head to be showered in Tit's bloody phlegm. Whimpering at this new development, Phox was quickly cleaned off by the nearest conscious adult (the recently returned Raven) and moved to a teat, where he began drinking greedily.

With the return of the food bag (Raven), Titmouse's protests were limited to squeaks and chirps rather than screeching and yowling. He still dripped red-streaked snot as he bumbled along, but the boy was more focused on the prospect of food and less concerned about the coppery taste he would one day associate with blood. When he thought he'd stumbled nearer to his target he steadied himself, took a second to aim, and then there was takeoff! With his mouth open, Titmouse aimed for a teat — fully intending to latch on and nibble a bit, then probably drink something and pass out — but he easily missed the mark and slammed right in to the hungry Phox.

Something slammed into Phox's face, and he immediately began to flail about. While Tit may have been vocal, Fidget was anything but. He was, by and large, a quiet child. Content with most things, and mildly annoyed by others. This definitely fell into the latter category, as he'd been knocked loose from his feeding frenzy. Unwilling to let that deter him, Fidget regained his senses and managed to latch on again with the help of Raven, who had more than likely rolled her eyes at Tit's stupidity. That's right, I called Tit a stupid.

Although the intelligence of the newborns was hardly in question, it would soon be known that Titmouse was by far the dumbest.

With his face buried against Phox's fluffy tummy he seemed to quiet down; his mouth closed around a tuft of fluff and he nibbled on that, spat it out, nibbled, spat, until he'd gotten his brother's underside nice and damp. Except then, as Phox latched on to a teat again, Tit latched on to a particularly dense chunk of fluff and skin near the boy's throat and sort of... Well... Gave him a hickey. And this time when he let go, he took the fur with him — tearing out a wad of fur which became a nasty spit-ball of hair that Raven had to swiftly try to remove, just as the babe began to choke on it. At least he wasn't screaming though? (Or for that matter, chewing on his sister's no-no parts).

Up to this point, Phox had never really felt pain. He'd felt discomfort, but he had no issue handling that. When Titmouse nearly sucked his neck clean off, though, Phox cried out, squealing and detaching from Raven's nip. Speaking of Raven, she was busy trying to keep Tit from choking to death and winning a Darwin Award. This, Phox decided, was just the way things were. When he didn't immediately get the attention he wanted, Fidget sulked quietly, pawing at his injury.

Once he was free of the messy hairball, Titmouse could breathe easier. He remained plopped on his back with his limbs flailing a little, like an awkward turtle having lost its ability to flip over; meanwhile, Raven grabbed hold of Phox and made sure to inspect the other child for any serious damages. By the time she was done, Titmouse had fallen in to a half-sleep and was making tiny gurgling baby noises between his phlegmy little snores. Phox — and Raven for that matter — was safe from the dangers that the little nipper posed, for now.

Once he was thoroughly looked over by the resident caregiver, Phox was placed back at the source of food, where he began to eat, kneading Raven's soft belly while his hind legs twitched. Like his brother, Phox was asleep in no time, still half-suckling on a teat even in his dreams.