[Milestone1] shelter-in-place

The Stormbringer came into this world as a static-cling little ball of dark fur, too young for any of his stripes to be distinguished from one another; a tiny, fuzzy lump among squirming, nameless others that shied away from his "poking". His parents were adoring, doting. They were a warmth that could smother any darkness, any other light— and perhaps that is why he came to be in the little band of misfits that call themselves the Stagecoach Lot.

It was a tempestuous night when he and his siblings opened their eyes for the first time. The roiling clouds hung low over the plains, stained-orange by the evening sun and the ozone burning in the air. Sheets of rain came crashing down from them, sparkling and somehow not quite as loud as the lightning and thunder that frightened his siblings so; that enamored him so dearly.

He'd wanted to watch the storm pass over them, to feel its howling wind cut through his downy fur and right down to fragile little bones. But, the warmth of his parents denied him such an overwhelming feeling, bid him to hunker down in the den with his siblings; bid him to suppress the call of the storm, lest he never return home from it.