Crow's Call | successful hunt


rose of thorns
Jun 8, 2022
The picture of grace, at least on the outside. She strides upon long legs, a willowy, wiry frame gliding across damp earth, eyes like molten fire shining in the mist. The creamy she-cat slithers through the murk like a serpent, clearly well suited to the environment, despite it's dark shadows and thick mud. She finds herself weaving between tangles of thorn bushes, tracking the call of a large crow, no doubt having feasted upon the scattered remnants of the carrion-place. There was a whiff of rot upon the humid air, as Willow prowls closer through the murk.

The dark feathered bird continues to croak in song with the insects, and there, beyond the shadow of a stray pine, she could see it, sleek and shining with a dark beak and sharp eyes, perched upon a mossy stone that jutted through silvery morning mist.

Willow pauses, steps back, coils like a python around her prey as she circles toward a better position, where the wind and sun would not betray her creamy pelt. Behind the crow now, she creeps like a ghost, silent and deadly, until the bird is within reach. With a clench of her fangs, she lunges atop the stone, her paws striking moss, her claws finding purchase to hoist her those last few inches. The crow lets out a startled cry, tries to throw itself into the sky, but it's too late. The prey hadn't been alert enough, hadn't been fast enough. Her talons hook into it's flesh, slam it against damp stone, and gnashing teeth pierce it's throat to end what remained of it's life. Such a swift death, such a grand opportunity for it's hunter.

She perches upon the jutting stone, lifts her bloodied head to swipe a barbed tongue across her sandy jaws. There's a gleam in her hellish eyes, of pride and delight, and satisfaction. Now... she could sit upon this mossy throne and devour the meal herself, or she could bring it back to camp like a hero, a queen in the murk. Yes... reputation was important, wasn't it? Respectful appearances were all too gratifying.

Her stomach would wait. Willow was an accomplished hunter, an even better ambusher. She might not be a brute in battle, but she was a raptor in the mist and night. There were those worse off than her in the clan, those that were failures, that could not hunt as well for themselves. Did they even deserve to eat if they could not contribute? Well... those venomous thoughts were for another day, because despite whatever venom seeped through her gnarled mind, Willow did care for the marsh group, did feel like she belonged. So keeping the peace was important for her, and even the worst hunters could serve as fodder in a battle, could they not? There was more strength in allowing them to eat.

Willow picks up her black feathered crow, tasting it's blood as she leaps from her rock. By the time she arrives back in camp, weaving through the thorny entrance, the mist had evaporated.

[tl;dr: willow is arriving back at camp with a crow. most of this post just serves as an intro to her personality.]​
He's resting, grayish-white flank pressed securely against his mother's side. Twilight is grooming him, meticulous but gentle. The smooth rasp of her tongue over his fur, his ears, the black crown of his head, causes him to doze. The only time he's ever happy is when he's alone, with his mother.

Despite her grooming, though, Ash will still look dirty. His fur has a perpetual gloom, an unwashable flecked funk to it that will never come clean with a mother's tongue. The thought disturbs his dreams, causes him a deep and powerful sadness that cats of eight moons don't typically have the capacity for.

He looks at Twilight with sadness misting his yellow gaze. "Can I go now, Mother?"

Her own lovely honey-colored eyes meet his. She seems startled. "Are you sure, love? I still have to get the back of--"

"I'm hungry," he lies. He moves away from her without being dismissed--he knows it's rude, but he's hurting, and she does not call after him. She may be hurt, too, he thinks, but she shouldn't be. Ash is eight moons. He doesn't know any other cat at eight moons who stays by their mother's side and is groomed by them every day.

His thoughts are interrupted by the pale, powerful stride of a huntress into camp. Willow, ragged feathery shape clutched in her jaws, appears before him, and he's simultaneously frozen in fear and awe. He's caught a frog before, once... but Twilight had helped him corner it, and he can hardly take the credit.

Besides, birds are so much tastier, and they fly! Much harder to catch, he reasons. With shining eyes, Ash forgets himself and asks, "Wow... you caught that by yourself?" Birds aren't common enough in their fresh-kill piles. "M-maybe. Maybe you could... show me how to... sometime."

Faux pas. He ducks his head. Willow is not particularly nice, either. She might say something mean. He wishes he would think before he speaks more...


Not as impressive as my owl! Her inner voice huffs vainly as she watches Willow enter camp with the crow. Immediate praise and awe were given to the feline by a adolescent... it was a petty thing to get disgruntled about. A very petty thing... and the blue smoke was aware of this, even a little ashamed. She does her best to shake the envy from her head, though that voice that constantly compared herself to others was always there even as just a whisper.

"It is quite nice... If only it was more meat than feathers." An unneeded insult disguised as just a minor compliment, "But you must be so proud... quite hard to come by prey nowadays."

The adolescent double subtracted in age when compared to Soot requests to maybe be shown some tips sometime. "A fine feline such as Willow is likely busy... but I would be more than happy to show you a few things?" Oh, she was probably really pushing it... Soot just couldn't help herself sometimes!


There was a scuttle of paws, a scuffle of voices- or perhaps it was not so confused, and Berry was simply paying woeful attention. Olivine eyes creaked open, one ever wider than the other, and settled upon the figure of Sandy. Between gruff jaws she held her prize- ebony plumes, easily spotted against her pale features. Envy, though dull, glowed verdant in his chest for a moment.

He did not thrive in this land. Not at all. Prey was scarce and he has an appetite. Unfortunately for many, birds-, so rarely caught- were Berry's favourite around these parts. Plucked clean of feathers they were delicious, much more so than the slimy flesh of frog and toad. His hunting talent was undeniable, but often even he failed to catch birds- they were deft, and his missing paw tended to hinder him in the speed department.

It was not often that he would interject in conversation, but when food was involved he could not resist the temptation, reeling him in like a fish on a hook. Never would he intend to be rude; but as white toed paws carried him over in his typical ambling gait, his plain mannerisms gave away his intent. Eyes did not lift to meet Sandy's, but instead stayed statue-still upon her catch.

"Are you going to eat that?" Tone as polite and flat as ever, the slightest movement dipped his head toward the crow.