The first thing Gawen realizes is that people talk. A lot. In the future he will wonder if the terribly verbose entrance to his life is what causes him to become so reticent with his own words, but for now it just sounds like angry wasps as the words fly senselessly over his head. Not that he'd call their voices wasps, the women are quite melodic after all, but the words themselves hold no meaning to the newborn except the shape of their sounds. All he really cares about is getting his butt up off the ground! His fine-boned Arabian lineage has not yet filled out with his father's Andalusian blood, and his knobby-kneed self is pretty useless at standing he is beginning to realize as his second attempt ends him with sprawled spread-eagled across the earth, tiny wet wings fluttering in surprise.

He hates this already.

Two familiar scents converge upon him, his mother and her companion using their noses to gently guide him upward. For a moment Gawen thinks he might have this whole "standing" business down pat, tiny brown hooves planted unsteadily in the earth, and an excited little rumble of noise echoes in his throat. But then he goes to eagerly take a step forward towards his mother, little belly still demanding nourishment, and goes toppling headfirst into the soil, butt and legs kicking in the air as he eats dirt.

A whine of pain leaves him, shifting to his knees as he sits unhappily on the earth, not wanting to try again but instinct driving him forward nonetheless.

A distraction is presented by a new scent, muskier and manlier than the ones he is surrounded by. Finally, at last, there are no words. The stallion does not speak to him in a language Gawen does not yet understand, instead nickering in his deep voice down at the newborn hawk. Gawen lifts his piercing blues to the face before him, and something instinctual in him cries with joy and recognition. Father, his mind tells him, for the man is dark in hue like Gawen and the first to arrive and acknowledge the boy. His mind knows no better, latching onto the Elephant King like a newborn duckling. The boy gives a high-pitched whinny in response, eagerly returning this kind greeting as his forelegs kick out against the dirt in excitement.

His mother's soft words encourage him once more, and he kicks up into a standing position, wobbling towards the King on shaking legs, wanting to associate the man's scent as Gawen had done with Raeden. Instead he ends up slamming face first into the stallion's impressive shoulder, a squeal dying in this throat at the unpleasant sensation as he slides to his knees against the King, head cocked up against the pale limb to try and stare up at the stallion, feeling quite dejected as a sad, warbling noise crawls from his tongue. But he is finally close enough to scent him, rubbing his little nose across the man and happily categorizing him alongside Raeden. Mother and father.

With this task accomplished he shimmies up the unicorn, shamelessly propping himself up against the King's solid body to a stand. He sways drunkenly towards his mother, satisfied with his abysmal progress and driven once more by his belly. He stumbles his way to her, grunting and whining as he fetches up against her, nose jabbing into her poor belly as he searches for nourishment.

This whole "living" thing is terribly annoying business, and he is yet unconvinced of its benefits.