- Jul 5, 2024
- 46
- 38
- 18
bayingkit was pretty much grown.
she wasn't sure when it happened, really. suddenly her nest was too small, and her siblings too clustered, her mother long departed — returning to grace them with blizzard - frosted presence only after her coat smelled firmly of deep woods and preyblood. they were to go outside, eat when they were supposed to eat, and go to bed when the sun dipped beneath the spined horizon. sleep, wake up, eat, walk around where the snow wasn't too thick, sleep again — stay out of the way, and out of trouble. whatever. it was boring. it was drab. it was annoying, because she may as well be an apprentice if nightbird got to go out now — right? right . . no one else seemed to think so.
so she was old, and stuck in camp, and she'd already plucked a chipmunk from the ground and tore into its striped, scrawny flank until her teeth clacked bone . . far too soon for her liking. she'd licked crimson from the white - splotch of her maw, over thistlethorn teeth, chasing the remnants of uncomfortably cold rodent and feeling it settle with an unsatisfied grumble in the pit of her belly. she thinks that, if she were an apprentice now, she would have caught a better chipmunk than this — one bigger and fatter than all the rest, unbeholden to the stinginess of leafbare. she'd catch one that could fill her up, to stop the low rumble that echoes around her rib cage and erupts from her maw in a rusted growl.
haphazardly she covers the thing — half disappointment, half annoyance, and plops her muzzle firmly to unsheathed paws. she stares at the measly freshkill pile a few paces ahead.
she isn't sure who'd done it. she hadn't seen, not as she blinks snowflakes from matching lids to be sure of what she was seeing. there was something new. right on top, laying in a heap of still - steaming fur, bristled tail thick, curled as if it were only sleeping . . a big, meaty squirrel. her nose twitches. her neck lifts, nostrils flaring wildly to catch the waft of carmine riding frostridden winds. it was as if the sun itself shone a spot through the clouds and raptured it in a beam of golden light — in the battering weather, whoever grabbed it would be full as a tick, and if you asked bayingkit . . she hadn't been all that full in a while. bicolored eyes check left, check right, blinded from any watching eyes by a dizziness of gluttonous hunger that nips at her like frozen teeth.
there were perks to being a -kit, unsaid as they might be. when she stands, stretches and shakes her snowy mane with a condensated huff, no one really pays her much mind. not even when she rounds the freshkill pile, sniffing wildly, tail twitching at her heels — she feels inconspicuous. sneaky. if she is not, she is none the wiser. besides, didn't she need to be fed first? it didn't matter if she already ate. she wasn't full.
slowly, she takes the tip of its bushy tail and begins to back up, leaving a smear of blood over the thin white ground, towards the warriors den ( if she was nowhere near her poorly buried catch, she could never be caught! ) and into the cut of shadows it casts. it was probably fine, anyway. there was enough, she thought . . and anyone else could just go catch another fat squirrel. it's not really her problem, being a kit still 'n all.
by the time anyone approaches, she has two large paws slung over its brown side, curled onto her ( large ) belly and nose - deep into the gash of sunblooded red she'd made in its flank.
she wasn't sure when it happened, really. suddenly her nest was too small, and her siblings too clustered, her mother long departed — returning to grace them with blizzard - frosted presence only after her coat smelled firmly of deep woods and preyblood. they were to go outside, eat when they were supposed to eat, and go to bed when the sun dipped beneath the spined horizon. sleep, wake up, eat, walk around where the snow wasn't too thick, sleep again — stay out of the way, and out of trouble. whatever. it was boring. it was drab. it was annoying, because she may as well be an apprentice if nightbird got to go out now — right? right . . no one else seemed to think so.
so she was old, and stuck in camp, and she'd already plucked a chipmunk from the ground and tore into its striped, scrawny flank until her teeth clacked bone . . far too soon for her liking. she'd licked crimson from the white - splotch of her maw, over thistlethorn teeth, chasing the remnants of uncomfortably cold rodent and feeling it settle with an unsatisfied grumble in the pit of her belly. she thinks that, if she were an apprentice now, she would have caught a better chipmunk than this — one bigger and fatter than all the rest, unbeholden to the stinginess of leafbare. she'd catch one that could fill her up, to stop the low rumble that echoes around her rib cage and erupts from her maw in a rusted growl.
haphazardly she covers the thing — half disappointment, half annoyance, and plops her muzzle firmly to unsheathed paws. she stares at the measly freshkill pile a few paces ahead.
she isn't sure who'd done it. she hadn't seen, not as she blinks snowflakes from matching lids to be sure of what she was seeing. there was something new. right on top, laying in a heap of still - steaming fur, bristled tail thick, curled as if it were only sleeping . . a big, meaty squirrel. her nose twitches. her neck lifts, nostrils flaring wildly to catch the waft of carmine riding frostridden winds. it was as if the sun itself shone a spot through the clouds and raptured it in a beam of golden light — in the battering weather, whoever grabbed it would be full as a tick, and if you asked bayingkit . . she hadn't been all that full in a while. bicolored eyes check left, check right, blinded from any watching eyes by a dizziness of gluttonous hunger that nips at her like frozen teeth.
there were perks to being a -kit, unsaid as they might be. when she stands, stretches and shakes her snowy mane with a condensated huff, no one really pays her much mind. not even when she rounds the freshkill pile, sniffing wildly, tail twitching at her heels — she feels inconspicuous. sneaky. if she is not, she is none the wiser. besides, didn't she need to be fed first? it didn't matter if she already ate. she wasn't full.
slowly, she takes the tip of its bushy tail and begins to back up, leaving a smear of blood over the thin white ground, towards the warriors den ( if she was nowhere near her poorly buried catch, she could never be caught! ) and into the cut of shadows it casts. it was probably fine, anyway. there was enough, she thought . . and anyone else could just go catch another fat squirrel. it's not really her problem, being a kit still 'n all.
by the time anyone approaches, she has two large paws slung over its brown side, curled onto her ( large ) belly and nose - deep into the gash of sunblooded red she'd made in its flank.
- i.
-
- " speech "
-
BAYINGKIT
———————SHE / HER, KITTEN OF THUNDERCLAN. NIGHTBIRD xx RACCOONSTRIPE, SISTER TO TWILIGHTKIT, TIGERKIT, STORMKIT & LIGHTNINGKIT. 6 MOONS OLD, SMELLS LIKE DISRUPTED SOIL & WET FUR. PENNED BY ANTLERS.
a large, unsightly black tabby kitten.mongrelish, standing all thistlethorn fur and bared teeth, bayingkit would be thought roguesblood if not for the dogtooth crown she uncomfortably bears. a hereditary haunting lies in the shag of ornate black striping and long limbs that do not yet suit her wide, slouching shoulders ; her fathers daughter, laced in dredge and filth moreso than he'd ever been. a constant, incessant need to make herself small forms in hunched spine and weary, whale - eyed suspicion, communicating mostly in rumbling growls.. bayingkit tends to hold herself with a tuck tailed and trembling livewire of feral volatility.
