- Jan 11, 2023
- 61
- 22
- 8
The dirt within the earth was so unlike its topsoil counterpart. The cold seasons drained it of life. It left the grass brittle, and the ground frozen solid. What knowing would there be of the wonders hidden beneath it all? Not a soul would have known, some moons ago. Even for those familiar with the moor, their perspectives would have been closed and shut, sealed off to the world that thrived beneath them. Within those familiar walls, the only concern was with prey scuttling skyward. Mice who lived feed, blessed to tuck themselves within lands with grains-a-plenty, had no need to escape into the ground. Not when their bellies were full and their stomachs warmed by that pleasantness, too much so to pay attention to the huntsmen creeping around every corner.
Here it lied, one of many vast, and splendorous distinctions between now and then. There was no such lingering comfort, out in the wilds. The world changed and adapted. Led them to take the tunnels, offered them that so-lacking foresight. Even if his belly ever gnawed and his eyes burned from the sun, he could find solace in here. A space that feels all his own, though it certainly did not need to be. The wonders abound him, time and time again, as dry, dry walls crumble into world of its own. Warm and wonderous, the feeling seeps into his wanting bones.
Discoveries were never shy to come, and here, is where they lie for the day. The soul he breaks into is moist, strangely so, even if he was far past the reach of leaf-bare. His claws connect with something viscous; and here, he pauses, glossy eyes straining in the darkness. Mucus-soaked thing. Quiet, and still. Whiskers, nor ears may offer him anything more. He sniffs. Familiar, earthen tang.
He may only assume its a worm, or– perhaps a few of them. And oh, how long has it been since he's seen one of these wriggling things. As the last rain of leaf-fall had passed, so had they, it seems. But here, he's found them. Still, it seems. He paws at them. Perhaps, a bit too rough, he dully acknowledges. It is only the way of things. He would assure their lives were not cut short for naught.
Little more than pests, they were, but he is utterly compelled to take them in maw, and return them from whence he came. For what purpose, he was not sure of, not just yet. He emerges into the clearing– and, for a moment he flinches. The emergence was always strange and sacred. His eyes adjust, skin is exposed to the light of day. It always ached, but it was worth it to share what he thought was worth sharing.
He wheezes a shaking breath, before at last, he is ready. The sliming things drift strangely on his lips, and, curious, a pink tongue drags across the clammy things. Teeth experimentally clamp down. Yes, its end would not be in vain, for it would sustain him still. The extent may not be great, but it was something. It should feel blessed in achieving such. He can't quite place the flavor. But the texture is... something. Had he a choice, he could name a number of things he would eat before these. But in leaf-bare, no, he hadn't much. He acknowledges this.
The rest of them are lain across the ground, if only for him to stop and contemplate. Hardly filling, no. Perhaps for a kit things would be different. The thing in his mouth is swallowed down with a shudder, and another, only so soon released from its clamped prison, is subsequently lifted by a pale claw. His hum is quiet. Rasping, the only noise he's made in quite some time. "How many of you would it take, sir...?" musings aloud. His eyes are fogged, never still; searching for an answer that he knew would never come. Not directly, not from the source, at least... "Could a life be saved for your sacrifice, sir? A kit... maybe." Talking to no one in particular. ...Or no one at all. He does not mind.
[ WHY the fuck is this so long um . TLDR; freak comes home with worms and then proceeds to eat / talk to them ]
Here it lied, one of many vast, and splendorous distinctions between now and then. There was no such lingering comfort, out in the wilds. The world changed and adapted. Led them to take the tunnels, offered them that so-lacking foresight. Even if his belly ever gnawed and his eyes burned from the sun, he could find solace in here. A space that feels all his own, though it certainly did not need to be. The wonders abound him, time and time again, as dry, dry walls crumble into world of its own. Warm and wonderous, the feeling seeps into his wanting bones.
Discoveries were never shy to come, and here, is where they lie for the day. The soul he breaks into is moist, strangely so, even if he was far past the reach of leaf-bare. His claws connect with something viscous; and here, he pauses, glossy eyes straining in the darkness. Mucus-soaked thing. Quiet, and still. Whiskers, nor ears may offer him anything more. He sniffs. Familiar, earthen tang.
He may only assume its a worm, or– perhaps a few of them. And oh, how long has it been since he's seen one of these wriggling things. As the last rain of leaf-fall had passed, so had they, it seems. But here, he's found them. Still, it seems. He paws at them. Perhaps, a bit too rough, he dully acknowledges. It is only the way of things. He would assure their lives were not cut short for naught.
Little more than pests, they were, but he is utterly compelled to take them in maw, and return them from whence he came. For what purpose, he was not sure of, not just yet. He emerges into the clearing– and, for a moment he flinches. The emergence was always strange and sacred. His eyes adjust, skin is exposed to the light of day. It always ached, but it was worth it to share what he thought was worth sharing.
He wheezes a shaking breath, before at last, he is ready. The sliming things drift strangely on his lips, and, curious, a pink tongue drags across the clammy things. Teeth experimentally clamp down. Yes, its end would not be in vain, for it would sustain him still. The extent may not be great, but it was something. It should feel blessed in achieving such. He can't quite place the flavor. But the texture is... something. Had he a choice, he could name a number of things he would eat before these. But in leaf-bare, no, he hadn't much. He acknowledges this.
The rest of them are lain across the ground, if only for him to stop and contemplate. Hardly filling, no. Perhaps for a kit things would be different. The thing in his mouth is swallowed down with a shudder, and another, only so soon released from its clamped prison, is subsequently lifted by a pale claw. His hum is quiet. Rasping, the only noise he's made in quite some time. "How many of you would it take, sir...?" musings aloud. His eyes are fogged, never still; searching for an answer that he knew would never come. Not directly, not from the source, at least... "Could a life be saved for your sacrifice, sir? A kit... maybe." Talking to no one in particular. ...Or no one at all. He does not mind.
[ WHY the fuck is this so long um . TLDR; freak comes home with worms and then proceeds to eat / talk to them ]
