Ankyra Sound it feels like you're with your father in the place you love

At only five days old, Svalinn's greatest talent to date was whimpering. It was a quiet sound, perhaps tempered by pain-memory, but it was his insurmountable instinct to do so. Whenever he lost too much warmth or felt too hungry, he whisper-cried for salvation. The punctures and bruises along the loose skin of his spine— a gift from teeth once meant to be gentle— were healing well enough, but they were an ugly reminder not to cry out too loudly. His sense of touch was one of only two things he had going for him, so the scars on his back ran deeper than his crinkling skin.

But the other thing he had going for him was taste— and the taste of milk was his saving grace. He didn't know what was going on, but first he realized that he had an inkling of Caiaphas' scent on his nose and tongue. Milk! His whimpers became more urgent squeaks, shuffling around in his attempt to squirm towards her. He was stilled suddenly by teeth at his tiny scruff. He stiffened, marble-sized paws splayed as his wounds were jostled, but he did not protest aloud as he swung back and forth beneath his caretaker's urgent muzzle.