Whitebark Stream This is a world of dreams and reverie.

Day four. They'd gone by so swiftly and, though so much had changed for the Whitebark leaders' newborns, their firstborn had adapted with ease.

There wasn't much he could do in a world where all he manage to do was mewl, suckle and sleep, so he did just that. Having been rudely roused by a littermate's kick to his stubby little snout, Winter greeted the new day with a yowl of outrage.

He dozed, basking in the warmth and glow of his family that'd grown so suddenly from two to six. There was a new beauty in the hollow he shared with Dawn, soft sounds and scents that swept each of his woes aside the moment he entered. Artyom knew, the first moment he saw them, that he would treasure each moment.

A golden ear pricked at the sound of a cry and, ever-attentive, the hunter shifted his weight to investigate immediately. Earthen eyes swept each slumbering babe, settling on the boy who'd inherited his mother's cool-toned pelage.

A smile bloomed, one that glistened in each warm iris as he reached over to touch his nose to the puppy's tiny head. "Помолчи," the new father crooned in a whisper, "Ты в безопасности со мной."

Day four had proven to be just as eventful as the preceding days. Today, Storm had pooped the bed and caused havoc among her siblings—namely Winter, who she had unknowingly kicked in her sleep. 

Storm continued to nap even after she had caused her brother's distress. Laying on her back and snoring lightly, Storm peddled her hindlegs ever-so-often as she dreamed.

A touch came in response to his cries, and the babe stilled quickly. He felt contentment seep into his bones and, like putty beneath his father's careful gesture, the tiny Whitebark cub melted into a puddle of happy gloop.

Soft rumbles then, further soothing him following a moment of panic, and soon he was lulled with ease into slumber once more.

His firstborn softened, relaxed beneath the gesture. Artyom felt the giddy swell of his heart at such an early show of trust, even if the tiny cub was not entirely aware of his surroundings.

It seemed he was not the only silver babe to stir, however, as Artyom spotted the movement of another at the corner of his eye. Delivering a tiny kiss to his son's shoulders, the new father shifted attention to his ashen-furred daughter.

"Так что вы нарушитель спокойствия," he crooned playfully, poking at her exposed belly with the tip of his snout.

The combination of Artyom's breath and the prod to the belly caused Storm to stir. She yawned as she came to, her limbs straightening as she stretched. Once satisfied with the way she felt, Storm curled her forelegs to her body and cooed happily; that felt good, her smushed face expressed.

cameo!

Frost existed in a soundless, sightless world. He was a newborn--senses limited by the very limited amount of time he had existed in this world. But that didn't mean that life was a vast, empty darkness. To a pup whose very life was a blank slate, every sensation, every moment was something new and vibrant. From the simple act of stretching out his toes to waggling his little pink tongue, every moment was something truly, wildly miraculous.

Not that he cared. He was a baby, so the newness and awesomeness of everything went completely over his head. He took it all in as more of an oh, neat rather than the OMFG NEAT!!! that a fully conscious, self-aware being would feel were just about every second of their life a new experience. In a way, it was a waste of gratitude. But it was also far more relaxing to simply experience life with the calm acceptance the littlest Whitebark had adopted. And as such a very, very little Whitebark, calm was certainly the preferred method of existence. He was simply too small for such big feelings.

So, when the other mini pumpkins began their squirming and smushing and squeaking--perhaps new experienes, perhaps not (they've been alive four whole days now, I mean come on)--Frost merely tucked himself away. Let them be rowdy and playful and excited about their sensationally sightless, soundless world. Frost was there to snuggle, eat, wet himself, and snuggle a bit more in peaceful contentment.

While the babies were blissfully ignorant of the world around them, their inexperienced father was enchanted by every tiny detail that his suddenly had to offer. Artyom hovered over the cubs with excited anticipation, so eager to soak up each little development that even a yawn or a fart could rouse fresh giddiness in him.

Storm seemed to appreciate her dad's gentle prodding, so her reaction earned a cheerful and accomplished wag of his tail. Operation "make them like me" seemed to be going pretty well so far!

Lowering himself carefully around his brood, Artyom buried his snout among the bundle of them. He breathed deep that warm baby scent he'd so swiftly come to love, and closed his eyes to bask in the moment.

The sensation continued; tickled—both figuratively and literally—Storm relished the feeling. When it disappeared, her happiness subsided. Confused, as she could sense Artyom's presence nearby, Storm gently pawed the air above her in an attempt to find her father.

Contentment. Happiness. What had his life been before Dawn, before these pups? The pale Alpha crooned affectionately to his brood, knowing then that he'd simply floated through existence this past year. This family he'd made gave it purpose, meaning, and as he cracked an earthen eye open to observe Storm's little waving paws, Artyom knew he would die for them.

He lifted his muzzle so that it hovered above his ashen daughter's reaching limbs, and dipped it just enough that she might succeed in her newest venture.