Look on her, this little Wisp of a lynx, curled up in deep repose, rumbling her purr to the near silence of the caverns. Who would think there was anything to disturb the slumber of one so fragile?

....Warm. Warm and crowded. So many others here, crammed together so tightly, but it is not uncomfortable. No, it is family, the unborn litter coiled around one another in their mother's womb, waiting for the moment when their first crawling, mewling steps must be taken in the world.

A sweet start to a memory, is it not' In safety and security, knowing intimately the press of brothers and sisters, hearing faintly the purring, familial voices beyond the enclosing isolation of their mother's belly. Sometimes they feel hands, pressing against them to feel them kick. Sometimes those hands are not entirely human. More often, they feel the purr as one of their family nuzzles close to the beautiful mound of life growing within the Alpha's mate.

This little one, already the runt in the womb, yet secure in the knowledge of the love she will be born into; she is the most active of them, twisting often to feel the press of a hand or muzzle against them as they slumber, welcoming each sign of affection though her mind cannot process the reason for it yet. Were that furry face human, it would be relaxed in a smile, content, secure.

But safety is short-lived. The warmth increases, slow and insidious, overheating the cubs where they lie pressed against one another. The light stings their eyes, makes them flinch back. If they could, they would whimper, mew in fright as the heat and light increases.

Flame. Flame licking the curve of their mother's womb, burning through flesh and bone and sinew. The runt turns, seeking escape from fire, and meets the murderous eyes of her kinfolk.

Hands reach for her throat; she stumbles back with a cry, and screams as fire coils about her foot, cracking skin and boiling fat. Caught between death by fire, or death by friend ....her claws slash out, blood spurts ...

Half-gasping, swallowing her scream for fear of alarming others, the little Wisp wakes, starting up from slumber. She shakes, curling in on herself, breathless as hands press to her mouth, stifling the sobs that bubble up inside her.

Dreams, memories, nightmares ....blood and fire and pain ....but here, here in the darkness, she can smell and hear and see her new pack, her new family. Safe and well, unharmed by her past. And slowly, she drifts off once again, peace shattered by a tainted past.

The moon is waxing, closer and closer to the pregnant swell of the full moon's face. Far below, nestled in the caverns she now calls home, curled between cat and wolf and reptile, the little runt of a lynx slumbers on. Her limbs twitch as the full moon rises in her mind, a memory of another time, another place, the first touch of Luna's hand on her soul.

....Waiting. They are gathered, this playsome litter, in the wide yard of the den, awaiting the rising of their first full moon. Six young faces, feline and human at once, a hybrid mix of their race's traits, waiting to be settled with the touch of the moon on their souls. Fifteen years in the making, this moment of truth.

The runt stands ready with her brothers and sisters, braced on feline back legs, clenching human hands, yellowed brown eyes cast skywards. This is the moment, this is where they discover how many true morphics have been born to the pack in this litter. The touch of the moon will tell them.

She rises, swelling round and beautiful in the clear night sky, casting her rays down to caress the heads of the waiting ailuranthrope pack. The runt hears her siblings yowl as the pain begins, but her own agony is all consuming. Bone cracks, sinew creaks, muscle stretches and groans. Her voice is lifted in a yowl of pain that becomes a low scream. From the furred hybrid comes the human, small and dainty looking, brown-eyed and yellow haired. But Luna is not done with her yet.

The pain returns, her head thrown back with a scream as the process seems to begin again, every part of her body afire with the burning pain of transformation. So caught up in her own misery that she did not notice the lack of voices joining hers. From the human comes the lynx, again small, but sturdy, yellow-eyed, dapple-brown furred.

But something is wrong. The elders are milling about, unhappily. Of six in the litter, only two have Changed as they should. One is a cat, a lynx in form and will remain so through all the days of his life. Three have fallen prey to inbreeding, keeping them human now and for all the days of their lives. The runt and the firstborn are the only true 'shifters.

There is an unhappy milling, uncertainty among the pack. The runt glances from side to side, testing her new feline body, wondering if she can 'shift back without help. Her eyes turn to her now human siblings ....fire burns on the edges of her vision ....pain flashes through her foot ....blood pools around her claws ...

Another terrified awakening. The little Wisp sits upright with a start, her gasp echoing away from her in the cavernous den. Such a happy memory, tainted so terribly with what had gone before. She shivers, her breath ragged in the darkness, and rolls onto her side. Someday, perhaps, these dreams will end.

A gentle wind blows over the Glen, whispering through the cave mouth to breathe soft against the bodies of the pack, gathered close together in repose. The little Wisp lies curled on her side, her face pressed into the shoulder of her closest friend. fingers clinging to his arm as she almost smiles at her dreaming.

....Running. The flash of trees and bushes on either side, the feel of the uneven ground beneath her feet eaten up by the loping stride of the lynxes' run, the scent of her pack, her family, all around her. This is freedom, pure, unadulterated freedom the likes of which no human could ever imagine. Here, beneath the full moon's glow, the beast within rises and calls the runt to run with her pack through the woods around their home.

They must be wary, they know. There is the scent of death on the wind tonight, of blood and fear and anger, of the very human manner in which cruelty can be inflicted. For the first time in the years since her first Change, the runt finds herself in the middle of the pack as they run together. Another time they would be spread out, loping and playing carelessly. Tonight, with the deathly scent of blood on the wind, they run together, bodies close enough to brush flanks with siblings.

The scent grows stronger, and she knows they are nearing the place where the death has occurred. The pack slows, some milling about the edges of the tight knit group uncertainly as the stench of freshly spilled blood, of gore and fear and violence fills their nostrils. And there ....there closeby is the source of that terrible scent.

The runt can hardly bear to look, even in this animal's form. It is a child, recognisable only by the shredded clothing strewn about beneath the trees. The body is ripped open, blood and organs thrown about, but it is clear that no claws made these wounds. No animal could do such damage as this to a child. But it is the face that absorbs the runt's attention. Blood spattered skin, eyes wide, mouth open in a rictus of terror ....she knows this child died in terror and agony.

She cannot bear it, closing her eyes, and feels sudden heat on her face. Eyes opening once again, she find all around herself the licking heat of flames, out of control and violent. A yell escapes from her suddenly human lips, and she spin away, seeking escape, and there ....there is the danger. Murderous eyes glare with hatred, threatening hands reach for her ....pain strikes deep into her foot ....claws flash and blood spurts ...

She jumps, waking abruptly with a quiet mew of terror. When will this nightmare end, when will her dreams be safe once more? She curls tighter against her companion, listening to the gentle cacophony of soft breathing from all who sleep around her. She is safe, here. For now.