![Tybalt [Stagstrike]](/data/avatars/l/0/397.jpg?1666054888){kind=avatar}
- Jul 23, 2022
- 190
- 12
- 18
Tybalt padded through the trees, stopping here and there to gather the prey he had caught on his hunt. He'd buried each piece where he would remember to return for it on his journey back to camp.
Camp was a place he rarely lingered these days. His few friends had slowly vanished one by one, and as they went, he could feel his ties to his clanmates whither and drift away. His usual snappiness had increased to a point where even Tybalt himself was becoming bothered by it. So he simply spent the majority of his time out in the territory alone. He returned each morning for patrol assignments and once or twice later in the day to deposit food he'd caught and briefly catch up on the little he had missed, and then vanished into the trees again, spending his nights curled beneath a thorn bush.
Leaning down to dig up the catch from his most recent stop, the tom picked up the squirrel by its tail and carried on. He continued silently through the trees, slowing to a stop again after a few moments. Where had he buried that thrush? He was certain it was somewhere around here. Or was it yesterday he'd buried something here, and now he was remembering it wrong. Pelt prickling in agitation, Tybalt turned back the way he had come. Perhaps he had missed it. He'd have to retrace his steps and see if he could--
And then he saw it. A distance away, a mass of fur was scraping its claws through the dirt, tossing pawfuls back behind it as it snuffled through the dirt. After a moment, the creature lifted its head and pulled up the thrush. His thrush. Tybalt stepped forward, claws unsheathed. Some filthy mutt wasn't going to steal his catch! He let out a hiss and dashed forward. The dog turned to face him, and he froze.
The dog hadn't been a dog after all, and perhaps the fact that it was a fox instead should have offered him some relief. Foxes were smaller than dogs. Easier to get rid of. But as the animal advanced toward him, the blood from the recently eaten thrush dripping from its muzzle, Tybalt still couldn't make himself move. His mind raced, the memory of his last fox encounter keeping him rooted to the spot.
Catching the rabbit with his father, turning away for a moment only for a fox to try and steal it. They couldn't afford to lose the food, so they'd fought for it. They'd expected it to be an easy fight. They'd kept plenty of beasts off their food before, after all. They'd fought hard, but it wasn't enough. The fox flung Tybalt from its back, and then bolted with the rabbit in its mouth. With a yowl of protest, Tybalt had begun to chase after it, but stopped as he lost sight of the animal. He turned back to his father in time to see the blood streaming from the older cat's mouth as he collapsed to the ground, and then he was gone, and Tybalt was alone.
Tybalt stepped pack, his features pulling into a rare expression of pure terror.
Camp was a place he rarely lingered these days. His few friends had slowly vanished one by one, and as they went, he could feel his ties to his clanmates whither and drift away. His usual snappiness had increased to a point where even Tybalt himself was becoming bothered by it. So he simply spent the majority of his time out in the territory alone. He returned each morning for patrol assignments and once or twice later in the day to deposit food he'd caught and briefly catch up on the little he had missed, and then vanished into the trees again, spending his nights curled beneath a thorn bush.
Leaning down to dig up the catch from his most recent stop, the tom picked up the squirrel by its tail and carried on. He continued silently through the trees, slowing to a stop again after a few moments. Where had he buried that thrush? He was certain it was somewhere around here. Or was it yesterday he'd buried something here, and now he was remembering it wrong. Pelt prickling in agitation, Tybalt turned back the way he had come. Perhaps he had missed it. He'd have to retrace his steps and see if he could--
And then he saw it. A distance away, a mass of fur was scraping its claws through the dirt, tossing pawfuls back behind it as it snuffled through the dirt. After a moment, the creature lifted its head and pulled up the thrush. His thrush. Tybalt stepped forward, claws unsheathed. Some filthy mutt wasn't going to steal his catch! He let out a hiss and dashed forward. The dog turned to face him, and he froze.
The dog hadn't been a dog after all, and perhaps the fact that it was a fox instead should have offered him some relief. Foxes were smaller than dogs. Easier to get rid of. But as the animal advanced toward him, the blood from the recently eaten thrush dripping from its muzzle, Tybalt still couldn't make himself move. His mind raced, the memory of his last fox encounter keeping him rooted to the spot.
Catching the rabbit with his father, turning away for a moment only for a fox to try and steal it. They couldn't afford to lose the food, so they'd fought for it. They'd expected it to be an easy fight. They'd kept plenty of beasts off their food before, after all. They'd fought hard, but it wasn't enough. The fox flung Tybalt from its back, and then bolted with the rabbit in its mouth. With a yowl of protest, Tybalt had begun to chase after it, but stopped as he lost sight of the animal. He turned back to his father in time to see the blood streaming from the older cat's mouth as he collapsed to the ground, and then he was gone, and Tybalt was alone.
Tybalt stepped pack, his features pulling into a rare expression of pure terror.
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