It had been the boy hiding behind his own mother that had done it, showing off his spindly legs and making her envy him them. That ambition, of course, was at once deterred by the need for mother’s milk -- the scent of it so stimulating as to seem magnetic to her small, barely pinkish, nose. Her ears prick and she is none-too-gentle when she latches on, jutting greedily into tender flesh so that her mother turns attention back to her in surprise..

It is a successful suckle, but before the great tall statue of dapple gold and splashes of healed flesh can retreat, the Cradle calls out. It sounds inviting, though curious, so she does not cease her meal other than to play her tongue over her drying lips.

"Do not go. You are my sister, come celebrate with us."

It is not the tall and golden not-Cradle that draws her attention after her first meal, though. Nor was it the not-Cradle-Behemoth. The little darkling creature at her back-- so dark, so black that it reminded her of that quiet, safe, Cradle, that she seems to take a definite interest in.

She does not know of ‘siblings’ or anything else of the like. She has yet to learn ‘mother’, ‘father’, ‘auntie’. She does not know him for her brother, but in those precious early moments - she sees in that black spindly legged boy something she yearned to have back. The dark comfort of utter blackness, of warmth and weightlessness. Why, just look at how his legs can move all about!

She makes her second attempt at her legs moving her where she wants to head, the Cradle finding herself moved by her daughter’s interest, towards him. Her little golden tail flutters behind her, her mane more thick like her maternal grandfather than was usually seen in their kind. The Teke determination falters only a moment when her hocks try to fishtail on her, but when she catches herself, she announces her demand with a shrill little squeal of impatience.

He had the legs, why on earth didn’t he use them!?