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Aodhán —

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Lorcan woke with a start, stirring and stretching as his mossy eyes peered at the world through protective slits. The light outside the den was nearly blinding, staining little spots into his vision. A soft series of wordless protests escaped his tiny lips as he acclimated himself to the sudden shift from his dream.

It had been such a nice dream.

He’d been so small, much like he was now … but far more agile, and with powerful back legs and long, pointy ears. The sun had been just as bright as it was now, and Lore-In-Rabbit-Form had enjoyed a wonderful morning jaunt and a chew on a few very delicious blades of grass. Lore recalled the gentle warmth of the sun on his back, and the sweet flavor on his tongue …

And his tongue would roll over his lips.

Sadly, he was once more just a small, round baby in the den.

With a huff, Lore rolled to his paws, finally adjusted to the light as he made his way toward the mouth of the den. He was as quiet as he could feasibly be at this age, paws battling the loose gravel as it grit beneath him. Now, if he could just … get out …

… perhaps he could try a few of those red flowers.

He absently wondered if they would taste like they had in his dream.

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Aodhán is not so plagued by dreams and the lull of sleep—no, he much prefers the brightness of the sun upon his back as opposed to the glare of it in his eyes. As such he is often awake at first light, often trying—and only sometimes failing—to be the first soul to escape the den's darkness each day.

It is likely not easy for his parents to keep up with him, their already sleep-deprived bodies protesting against their youngest son's wishes. Yet he never feels anything but adoration from them—sees nothing of their tired eyes and instead finds their loving smiles waiting, their mirth as they give him permission to live.

Today has been no different. He has spent the morning frolicking through the dew-laden grasses and licking similarly-coated rocks, nose scrunching at their saltiness and gritty texture. The sun is only just beginning to truly warm him by the time he spies a flash of sorrel, a piece of autumn that comes drifting from the depths of the den.

Lor-r! he calls excitedly, his tongue accidentally rolling as he drops the stick he'd just found in favor of bounding in his brother's direction.

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