- Dec 31, 2022
- 158
- 46
- 28
.°☀ AND IF IT EVER STARTS TO FEEL BAD, LITTLE FANG
Sunflowerpaw has been getting better with their tracking, in lieu of speed. They know they shouldn't be pushing themself, and while that's not going to stop them, they are not opposed to alternate suggestions. They've tracked down a couple bird's nests by now, which is always exciting. Even if eggs aren't a preferred meal for most of their clanmates, they still feel pride at every morsel they bring back to camp.
Still, they feel a tingling of shame every time they watch one of the other apprentices bring back lizards, mice, even rabbits. There's one suggestion that lingers in the back of their mind. Weasel dens, Bluepool had said. Apparently quite easy to find by their scent, though it's not one that Sunflowerpaw is familiar with. Still, they're getting better at scenting out prey, searching the moors for the scattered ground-nests of newleaf. They'd gotten a little over-eager at her suggestion, dreaming a little too big, but in time it dawned on them what she truly meant: that weasels, too, bore young in the blooming moons, small enough for food.
This is why, when Sunflowerpaw catches a strange and not altogether pleasant smell when hunting out on the moors, they find themself drawn towards it, not away.
It leads them to a ground-burrow, not unlike many others that Sunflowerpaw has seen throughout the moors, though with its scent far fresher. They creep through the tall moor-grass, peering into the darkness of the burrow. They keep distance, in case the mother weasel sights them; they can't quite make out what's in the burrow. But no, they part their maw, catch the same scent blowing from beside them. A scent trail. Reckless though it may be, they move towards it to follow. It grows stronger as it leads away. Perfect. Something has left this nest recently; with any luck, the young will be left alone.
And so Sunflowerpaw creeps closer, closer, to the maw of the burrow. It's small; too small for some of the adult moor runners, perhaps, but they can still fit. It feels strange, slipping into the den, like they are intruding not merely on the domain of the weasel but of their clan's tunnelers as well. Yet this is no tunnel; it connects to nothing, a lone burrow on the plains of the moor.
Inside -- it takes their eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light -- there are two young weasels, alone.
Part of them feels guilty, killing a creature so young. But prey is prey, and cats need to be fed. Sunflowerpaw lunges, sinks teeth into the neck of first one cornered and squeaking weasel, then the other. Fresh blood coats their tongue for the first time, still warm. They lick their lips absently. No time to celebrate their victory, the mother could return any moment.
Sunflowerpaw pulls their first two catches out of the tunnel and into the light of day. It's awkward, clutching both the kills in their mouth, but they manage. Golden eyes flicker to the direction of the scent trail, but there is no angry weasel on the horizon. No need to rush, then. That's good. Sunflowerpaw makes their way back towards their patrol, head held high. Two catches, not just one. It's no rabbit, but it'll do.
Still, they feel a tingling of shame every time they watch one of the other apprentices bring back lizards, mice, even rabbits. There's one suggestion that lingers in the back of their mind. Weasel dens, Bluepool had said. Apparently quite easy to find by their scent, though it's not one that Sunflowerpaw is familiar with. Still, they're getting better at scenting out prey, searching the moors for the scattered ground-nests of newleaf. They'd gotten a little over-eager at her suggestion, dreaming a little too big, but in time it dawned on them what she truly meant: that weasels, too, bore young in the blooming moons, small enough for food.
This is why, when Sunflowerpaw catches a strange and not altogether pleasant smell when hunting out on the moors, they find themself drawn towards it, not away.
It leads them to a ground-burrow, not unlike many others that Sunflowerpaw has seen throughout the moors, though with its scent far fresher. They creep through the tall moor-grass, peering into the darkness of the burrow. They keep distance, in case the mother weasel sights them; they can't quite make out what's in the burrow. But no, they part their maw, catch the same scent blowing from beside them. A scent trail. Reckless though it may be, they move towards it to follow. It grows stronger as it leads away. Perfect. Something has left this nest recently; with any luck, the young will be left alone.
And so Sunflowerpaw creeps closer, closer, to the maw of the burrow. It's small; too small for some of the adult moor runners, perhaps, but they can still fit. It feels strange, slipping into the den, like they are intruding not merely on the domain of the weasel but of their clan's tunnelers as well. Yet this is no tunnel; it connects to nothing, a lone burrow on the plains of the moor.
Inside -- it takes their eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light -- there are two young weasels, alone.
Part of them feels guilty, killing a creature so young. But prey is prey, and cats need to be fed. Sunflowerpaw lunges, sinks teeth into the neck of first one cornered and squeaking weasel, then the other. Fresh blood coats their tongue for the first time, still warm. They lick their lips absently. No time to celebrate their victory, the mother could return any moment.
Sunflowerpaw pulls their first two catches out of the tunnel and into the light of day. It's awkward, clutching both the kills in their mouth, but they manage. Golden eyes flicker to the direction of the scent trail, but there is no angry weasel on the horizon. No need to rush, then. That's good. Sunflowerpaw makes their way back towards their patrol, head held high. Two catches, not just one. It's no rabbit, but it'll do.
IT'S EASY TO EXPLAIN 'CAUSE THIS WORLD'S NOT TAME .°☀
-
// rolled a 19 get it kiddo
-
SUNFLOWERPAW named by their half-brother vulturemask after his friend and mentor.
— they/them, 5 moons.
— windclan apprentice, mentored by wolfsong.
— reserved yet loyal, distrusts most.
— mild limp.
primary character, high activity. penned by saturnid. -
