o sun to tell thee how i hate thy beams

His feet were still unsteady, but they stepped proudly from his mother's den and into the world of snow beyond it. It was a cold they were slowly getting used to, though by his proximity to his mother's safety- it was clear to tell that the litter of 8 was still working on it.

Atta's pelt was pale, much paler then it was meant to be. The puppy fur that still clung to him made him wash into the snow whites- noticeable only in the pinkness of his nose and the kaleidoscope green of his eyes. They sparkled along with the ice, like icicles or crystals on the foreground of the evergreen trees and ocean beyond them. 
He knew nothing of oceans yet, or evergreen trees. Just of the cold and of his mother's smell. 

The youngster looked back behind him, to eyeball the entrance of the den to see if he was being followed. With excited bounds he leaped into the snow, disturbing the plain and pure sheet of white from last night's snowfall with small puppy prints that barely dented the crisp top layer. His tail swished behind him- small and stubby and with barely enough fur on it to use as a paintbrush. 

He noticed something- a sort of twinkle among the trees, that drew his curious mind near it and away from the den. On approach, he noticed glistening icicles- dripping the purest of water from their tips and into the snow. He stared at them with awe, admiring their beauty and their color.

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  iridescent golden showers sprinkled upon his body in different layers of melted sun. tawny mixed with decadent off white hues were paired seamlessly with gentle daps of iron and charcoal. in some regards, he was a spitting image of his father. a starborn child graced with the purest of emerald green eyes. the third of the bunch was definitely a looker.

  months and months had seemed to fly by, and the once small child had blossomed into a rather...pudgy fashion. limbs that were still sprouting and a body that was still growing was an interesting sight. fjórir surely ate well, and it showed. not that he minded. in order to be big and strong to help his father protect the pack, the boy needed to eat. but that didn't mean he didn't need exercise. so color him surprised when he sees a rather yellow looking tuff wander off out of their shared den. atta.

  atta was the youngest of his sibling, the number eight. he was on the paler side of their color palette, seaming to be the lightest hue of gold. it was almost like he was see-through. creepy. but what worried him was his sudden outting. not many of them have ventured too far from the mouth of their home. most days the liter stayed nestled into their mother. concerned, and a bit restless himself, the young boy followed.

  waddling out of the shadows of their home, fjórir found himself slapped relentlessly by the cold of the north. the gods themselves descended from their realms and hit him with a firm grasp of reality. his "home" was not as warm or welcoming as his mother's side. it was brutal, it was frigid, and it was relentless. the bite the wind had nipped furiously at his puppy pelt, pounding it with sharp sudden pangs. it made him huff in a defiant response before he just... ignored it.

  each paw forward felt like a liberating step. the tether that kept him so close to the den suddenly becoming wesker and weaker as he followed his sibling. so when his eyes focused on the purest of icicles, his pupils widened. "woah..."he half whispered half yelled. the sudden vibrations lightly tickled the icicles, causing the droplets to sprinkled down upon them. in an immediate response, he giggled a childish laugh. "good find atta!"
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He appeared as delicate as a blooming field of daisies. Pale yellow gold contrasting the bright white of the snow. Limbs disproportional as expected of his age, though they remained lithe and skinny. In comparison to his larger brother, Atta looked like a single flower petal amongst a sea of beasts. Like a newborn lamb, or a spring chicken. Gentle and soft, intricate and delicate nature- yet, as he turned to his brother, one would realize that he was sour. Like unready fruit- or fruit that was too old. Rotten, spoiled.

Atta's nose turned up in displeasure at Fjorir, a paw stomping into the snow as he looked at him with a sort of disgusted anger. “Fjorir!” His little voice came out in a snarled whisper, not in any way intimidating. Even at the same age he looked up at his sibling, the curse of being last-born.
“You're gonna mess 'em up!” He stomped again, foolishly disturbing the snow that propped up the beholden branch. It crumpled- and suddenly the whole branch collapsed with icicles and snow.

FWOMP

The snow came crashing down onto the pups, though he was unsure if the disturbance had gotten Fjorir as well. He squealed and whined from beneath the snow, crying at the sudden cold and the ruining of his discovery. When he finally crawled his way out, head head comically popped up from the top of the heap like a cartoon. His nose still curled in subtle rage, though he wasn't sure yet what or who to be mad at yet.

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  the distasteful glower that emanated from his brothers facial expression didn't seem the phase the young boy. instead, the golden one could actually be seen smiling. his eyes were wide in wonder, and his body hummed with a new sense of thrill. what was this feeling called?

  adrenaline.

  it pumped through his veins freely as he began to bound about. the aching, dark delight of sin seemingly taking him over. though, not before atta barked at him. as if pulled from a daze, the young male finally turned his attention back to his brother - who was clearly throwing a tantrum. before he could respond, mother nature intervened.

  it was like the gods were playing the boys themselves, correcting their foul and neglectful behavior. to rectify them, a god unknown to boys jingled the branch ans forced it and the snow to fall on top of them. the older sibling had a brief moment of panic as his eyes darted to his sibling, his immediate reaction to cut the distance, but was stopped in his tracks by the tumbling ivory. with a sudden oof, the older boy went down.

  just a moment after atta emerged for their first avalanche, fjórir followed suit. his head popped out of the snow with a crunch, followed by him batting his lashes.

"that was fun!" he explained as he clawed his way out. thankfully his size gave him a slight advantage in just 'shaking it off'. in return, fjórir padded over to the youngest and began to dig him out. or just enough for his brother to do the rest.

"we should do it again!"
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He trailed behind his fourth born son, a distance behind in which young Fjórir would likely not notice his pale gold shadow. Stjörnuáti was not one to constantly hover, but neither would he allow his children to encounter danger because he was not vigilant. They were not of an age just yet where they could look after themselves, and so even while they were not allowed to venture out into the world beyond the mountain's feet, they still needed some sort of supervision.

The boy would eventually find his younger, smaller brother and engage him in puppyish antics, the snow tumbling down to cover them both. The man huffed a soft laugh, inaudible to them at this distance, before turning to scent out an old cache nearby. Might as well do something useful alongside his role of supervisor.

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He jolted with surprise as his brother's head also shot out of the top of the mound, sending a few bits of snow flying. Atta watched as Fjorir clawed out of the snow with ease, something tugging at his heart as he failed to do the same. The mere weight of a few pounds of snow locked his back legs in and though he was content with struggling on his own, his older brother came to the rescue.
Atta tossed his paws out once they were free, flailing to try and throw snow back onto his brother. The feeling in his heart fading, for now- to be replaced with the childlike joy that began to rise on his face the more snow he tossed.

A mischievous grin accompanied by gremlin laughter as he discovered something new once again. To play in the snow, to make his brother the target of his attack. Free enough, he sprung from the snow and bounded down the mound with joy. Jealousy and rage were not emotions he would know yet, nor ones he'd accept in his youthful soul. They were no match for the pure happiness of childhood.

Atta would kick his feet as he ran, hoping to toss a few more lobs of snow at his brother before running as fast as his paws could take him across the small clearing of their home. As he put more energy into his paws, though, they began to sink into the icy layer- making his running clunky and unsteady. He would trip not too far away, tumbling again into the snow. His laughter filling the air, not minding at all if it would wake his mother or the others.

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