Redhawk Caldera Bones in the soil, rust in the oil

@Peregrine

With every passing day, the world became increasingly easier to navigate.  Whip's tiny little legs increased in strength and now, he found himself able to crawl about the whelping den with relative ease. He would never stray for long however, and after a few moments of blind exploration, little Whip would crawl his way back to the brother pile or to his milk-bar mother.

He awoke in a heap of his siblings with a tired yawn. Today, the pup noticed something amiss. A single eye had opened into a slit. To Whip's great surprise, there was far more to the world than he had previously known. With newfound and blurry vison, Whip crawled his way down the brother pile and dragged himself through the den... admiring all the brown.

"Hey, little Tommy gun," Peregrine purled as he stepped into the den to find himself face-to-face with a squint-eyed brown puppy. "You don't look like a potato as much anymore," he said, dropping his head to the kiddo's level as he explained the abrupt name change. Of course, the pup couldn't hear a thing he said. He probably couldn't see much, either. But hopefully he could discern the shape of Peregrine's face, his moving mouth, and start to memorize his features as the Alpha himself had been doing to all four pups since their arrival nearly two weeks ago now.

Whip continued to hobble forward on clumsy legs, guided only by his newly aquired sense of sight. It was the light from outside the den that drew him in -- his single squinted eye laid transfixed -- but soon the light was obscured— a shadow taking it's place. Blurry and black, Whip back peddled a bit in fear and apprehension. After his initial reaction, however, Whip was quick to recognize his father's scent. So this was whe he looked like? He had imagined smaller.  

No longer apprehensive, Whip inched forward, but not without caution.  He lifted a tiny forepaw to touch his father's face, but as soon as it left the ground, Whip lost his balance and toppled over like a weeble-wobble.

His abrupt appearance seemed to startle little Potato Tommy Gun, though only for a moment. Peregrine held very still as the puppy assessed him (he probably looked like a massive black blob to the poor kid), then began to scoot toward him again. The Alpha lowered his head some more to accommodate him, putting it well within the youngster's reach. But the moment little T.G. reached out to touch him, he lost his balance.

Before his chin could hit the floor, the swarthy father pushed his snout forward a few inches to cushion the boy's fall, resulting in the little Pi sprawling over the top of his muzzle like a weird, furry starfish.

Whip landed on the bridge of his father's muzzle with a soft flop, limbs splaying in all directions. His single, squinted eye quickly snapped shut and a faint "oof!" passed the pup's lips. For a moment, the pup sat stunned; eye slowly reopening to get a closer look at the blurry shadow that he knew to be his father.  

The pup could not sit still for long. Driven by a strong sense of curiosity, Whip's tiny limbs began to move as he attempted to crawl higher on his daddy's face, but his limbs were never granted purchase. Whip remained stationary - stuck on the bridge of his father's muzzle - despite the constant derpy peddling of his legs.

Peregrine quickly lowered himself to the ground to avoid slippage, then held still as the pup attempted to clamber aboard his head. He barely held back a chuckle when little Tommy Gun went all of nowhere, his stubby legs too short and his tiny paws too inexperienced to obtain any real kind of purchase. Very, very gingerly, the Alpha tipped his head to the left to gently dump the whelp onto the floor.

Glancing down at him, the father was once more reminded of the pup's resemblance to his older brother. "We," he said, resettling beside T.G., "should definitely name you after a bird too. Something that resembles a nightjar. Like Kestrel? Or Cuckoo?" Maybe they could have a Cuckoo and a Cockatoo! "According to your Grandma Mo, nightjars are also called goatsuckers or nighthawks. I am pretty partial to the former," he fibbed, huffing a laugh, "and Nighthawk Redhawk is way too redundant, don't you think?"

While Whip's actions clearly told him he was going nowhere, he was far too stubborn to stop his fruitless attempt at ascension. His movement, however, came to an unceremonious halt with the change in incline of his father's head. Gravity did the rest, pulling him to the ground. Spilling out onto the den floor, Whip rolled with the gracefulness of a frightened pill-bug— eventually settling on his back with limbs splayed upward.

"Ack!" The pup jabbered in displeasure, legs kicking upward and body writhing uncomfortably. Thankfully, Peregrine soon settled in beside him. Whip rolled to his side and poked at his father with outstetched forepaws as he spoke. Had he understood to words his father spoke or could he reply with some level of intelligance, Whip would have more than likely responded to the suggestion of Nighthawk Redhawk with a firm; fuck yeah. Seriously though— so badass.

He took the pup's cry of "Ack!" as agreement. "So that's definitely off the table," Peregrine murmured, leaning slightly into his son's curious touches. "Goatsucker would be pretty rad but it sounds kind of perverse. I'm normally a big pervert myself but let's not, uh, suck on any goats. Hmmm?" He pressed his nose to the whelp's forehead.

Deciding to emulate the much littler wolf, Peregrine slowly rolled onto his own back so that they were staring at the ceiling, side-by-side. He rolled his head to look over at his paler mini-me. "Kestrel is pretty cool, though. What are your thoughts?"

The words Peregrine spoke meant absolutely nothing to the pup, who in his infancy understood them as little more than a rumbling noise coming from his shadow of a father. Despite their meaning being a mystery, the sound of his father's voice was a comforting thing to Whip, serving to sooth him close to sleep. A slight cooing sound passed his lips, and once comfortable, his kneading forepaws stopped and eventually came to rest across his chest.

But, before Whip could get too comfortable, his father shifted and imitated Whip's position. With his single squinted eye open as wide as it could with curiousity, Whip watched as his father mirriored him without making a sound. He remained perfectly still, waiting to imitate his father in turn.

The lil' squirt didn't have much to say about it, so Peregrine thought a moment and shook his head. "It's a cool name but it just doesn't fit, you know?" he said, glancing sideways at the pup again before looking straight up at the ceiling in thought. "I'm still stuck on some kind of bird, I'll admit. There has to be—oh."

Abruptly, the perfect name floated to the surface of his mind as if it were a deep well of water. "Whip-poor-will," he announced to the quiet den air, once more pressing his cheek to the floor to gaze at his tiny companion. "They look a lot like nightjars. Your grandmother, Mo, used to test me sometimes when we hunted together, to see if I could tell the difference. I was never anywhere near as knowledgeable about birds, though."

Whip-poor-will, he repeated in his head, lips moving silently. Yes, it felt just right. He would have to tell Fox. He did not imagine she would mind much at all, especially since it fit neatly into both of their naming traditions. "Maybe Will for short," Peregrine mused.

Since we've got the new one, mind if we fade this one out?

Once again, Peregrine's words fell on nearly deaf ears. To Whip, who had yet to have any concept of words or communication besides basic body language, the rumbling that came from his father was simply noise. However, this noise was something Whip dearly wanted to imitate. Already, he wanted to be just like dad. As soon as there was silence, Whip tried his best to imitate the sounds his father made, but he only managed a weak, "—ip!" in response.

Still, to the pup, his imitation sufficed. Happy with his accomplishment, Whip peddled his forelegs though the air uninhibited while smiling dumbly at the ceiling.

Sure, I'll wrap it for us. :)

The father mistook the noise for a hiccup and he snorted a laugh, rolling over onto his side and stretching out his free leg to gather his son closer to him. He gently pulled him to his chest, pinning him there as Peregrine ran his tongue over the youngster's head. Although he squirmed a bit initially, no tiny puppy could resist the soothing effect of a warm tongue. Soon he was babbling sleepily, his barely open eyes fluttering closed.

Peregrine shifted so that Whip-poor-will (he couldn't help but already think of him by that name) was practically hidden from view, tucked up under his leg, then let his chin drift over top of his head. After a cursory glance around the den to make sure everyone else was comfy and settled too, he let his eyes drift shut too.