Wendigo

Born tiny and frail the hatchling was honestly a pathetic sight to behold, its body quivered with every feeble breath. It won't survive past today was the thought that crossed Keeva's mind when the sickly ball of fluff reached out its shaking paws to her, seeking aid and comfort from its mother, only for it to seize in agony as Alhazred branded it with the mark of death. It was not even fit to serve the gods.

The child whimpered as he watched his parents turn away. Left in the nest to die alone. Days pass and the hatchling struggles to even move with his bones and joints aching as if his nerves were being set aflame and his stomach throbbing with hunger. On the verge of giving up a shadow falls over the hatchling and he lets out a happy trill when he sees that his mother returned for him. Keeva watches the hatchling barely clinging to life. Starving. Its fur dull and matted and every breath a painful wheeze.

It's supposed to die and she's not supposed to care. Many of her children before this one have perished and she never batted an eye before, but this one speaks to her. Maybe it's the way it begs pitifully with its eyes that urges Keeva to help it without her mate's knowledge. As a result the skydancer arranged for the child to be taken by a traveling caravan passing through the area and left it in the care of a merchant who was perhaps way too much of a smooth-talker to be trustworthy, but he was the best shot the hatchling had at getting as far away from here as possible. It cried unable to speak for it was never taught as it was handed off to the merchant, don't leave me it wanted to scream, but it was ignored and the merchant simply smiled "Not to worry miss, he's in good hands" as he tipped his hat and bundled the little Tundra onto his cart.
Later, on the outskirts of the Scarred Wasteland, the merchant grins and counts out his newly acquired gems, the hatchling officially under the care of the friendly neighborhood cult.
The hatchling is tossed with several other crying younglings, left exposed to the Wyrmwound, convulsing as his body mutates, forced to adapt or die "Hush little ones, this is for your own good, accept the pain" coos the soft voice of the cult leader, Saoirse, to the many hatchlings laid before her. She leaves them there to suffer and starve alongside each other giving only one direction; The strong devour the weak.
"Would you look at you" Saoirse grins gleefully, having returned to see the aftermath of her little test surprised at the results. She runs gentle claws through disheveled pink fur, detangling the knots as she comforts the quivering young Tundra before her, blood and gore dripping from its maw, the corpses of the other hatchlings scattered about. "The strong deserve a name, don't they?"

"Mother would be proud of you Wendigo"

Wendigo purrs and leans into the gentle petting, bumping newly formed horns against the spiral in an affectionate nuzzle. Pleased to finally be accepted.