His first memory was scent.

It wasn't his own scent, or his mother's. It was his father's, strong and musky. Later, he would realize that his father smelled like rotting bark and wet fallen leaves and old blood and some indescribable scent that spelled out Lupos to every creature in the world.

But when he was young, all he knew was that this sensation meant good things, like warmth and safety and a gentle touch, and he would use both hands and all four paws to pull his body towards the source of that scent, once his nose knew how to find it.

It was hard to distinguish his mother's scent from his own; both were very, very faint, and very soft, like grey moss growing on a grey tree. He was her only son this time around, and his scent would not become strong and rich until he neared adulthood; her scent would always be less noticeable, more a taste of the world around them than the scent of Lupos and family and strength.

By the time his nose found out how to tell his mother from himself, his ears had begun learning what the cacaphony of the world meant. He strained to hear the noise of breathing, of heartbeat when he was in his father's arms, of fur and cloth rustling when his parents came and went. His own fur was quieter, sleek and baby-soft still, but he still squeaked when he moved. Eventually, he learned to not squeak when he propelled himself on his long belly around the den.

By the time his ears knew his mother's voice from his father's, his eyes were open and trying to interpret the whirlwind of color and motion and shape. It took longer to learn what his own hands looked like, and what he could touch and what was too far away to reach with his short arms. Colors were ever-shifting, and it took him a very long time to realize that his hands and paws were different colors; his hands were tawny, and his paws were black. He spent hours on his back, studying his six limbs, and slowly figuring out which action moved which limb that he could see.

By the time he knew what muscle moved which visible body part, he had begun teething, and he was given a scrap of leather to shred. Dull claws had emerged from the ends of his toes, but sharper ones protruded from his fingers, and he used those to hold the leather still as he ground his young jaws against it. His gums itched abominably and he let himself whine each time he finished destroying a leather scrap. His parents gave him another, and he watched how they moved, and saw their colors. His mother was black and a darker brown than him, and his father was grey with yellow eyes.

By the time his teeth were new and sharp and itched no longer, he had learned to walk on four legs, rather than crawling on all six. It tired him easily, holding his upper torso upright like his parents did, but he wanted to be more like his parents because they smelled of health and good things-- even his mother, who had gained a more alive scent once he had been weaned.

By the time his nose could find many scents in the cool wind, and by the time his ears were beginning to pick out name-words from the noises his parents made, and by the time his eyes could track a moving object without losing focus, and by the time his body listened to his mind, and by the time he ate soft pieces of fresh meat and breads and fruits, and by the time he walked as the adults did... by that time, he was four seasons old, and he knew his name, and he was allowed out of the den to meet the rest of the Tehar clan.

His fellow Tehars smiled to see the strong young pup whose fur was black and gold, as though the sun was rising beneath him.