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Summary
The weight was…lighter than he expected.
The baby in his arms had soft, slightly messy dirty-blonde hair and tan dough, faintly golden under the moonlight. Tiny freckles dotted his cheeks and nose, and on his forehead rested a small, star-shaped mark. A faint scent of vanilla rose from him.
The Fount studied him carefully.
“A Vanillian,” he murmured.
Judging by his size and development, the child was perhaps a week old—no more. The Vanillian tribe was still relatively new, only a few hundred years into its existence. He had read about them extensively, of course.
His gaze flicked briefly to the others still in First Milk’s arms. He recognized hints of cacao, cheese, and other emerging civilizations.
Interesting.
(Or Fount of Knowledge adopts 5 little baby dough.)
Contents 3 chapters
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