Sleeping Dragon I'm your puppet

The stick refused to provide for him any milk, making the boy believe that he'd found a defective teat. It was not his since his always worked perfectly well, so whose was it? And what did they do to break it? He was interested to find out—about as interested as a puppy could be, anyways—but had no means of asking around. His babbling was something that could not be understood, and his cries only produced certain things: food, warmth, or other stuff. There was no cry that could ask 'hey, who broke this?' or 'what happened here? fix it!'. Only he could understand what thoughts drifted through his head, so it was lucky that his attention span was not yet fully in existence. The boy's time would not be spent mulling over that which he would never know, for against his body he'd felt something cold.

Hvitserk had been learning more and more with each passing day, but one of the first things that he'd ever learned about had been the cold. It was most unpleasant, and something he rarely sought, but there were also different versions of it. Certain cold things made him want to snuggle up against his mother's underbelly, while other cold things made him curious. Thur's nose had been the latter of the two, for he'd related the touch to the way in which his attention could be grabbed. So, he'd swung his head around—the resemblance to a bobblehead was uncanny—with the stick still in his mouth, the end being dragged along for the ride as he searched for whatever had touched him.