- Jul 30, 2022
- 7
- 0
- 1

And in the next step, he regrets nothing, stubborn dog she was to carve a name in lands antithetical to sand-worn bones. Besides, she was, well, alive. He fed. He slept. He trudged under both sun and moon and no talons nor stroke threatened him (well, yet—no wariness relented). She caught enough to get any fangs off her ass for now. Not without a few tricks, of course—she loved some good old gut-jumbling to 'plumpen' up a kill.
This, however—this giddying sliver of white winking under rustled soil and reed—needed no tricks.
"Aw, yes-s—" eggs! Of ambiguous size, between lizards' and snakes', or perhaps of some strange shade-lurker she had yet to see. Didn't care one bit—what mattered was no ma slithering around. Lucky her. In a heartbeat, he's lapping scraps of red and pink and slime and shell from purr-rattled gums, the crunch and gulp having gone down in a lunge of pure instinct.
...now, she'd usually wolf down as much of the nest as she could, well-fed for a while, but she hadn't caught anything else this day. He could bring these back for the ShadowClan tax... if he figured out how. In her mouth—they'd break. Nestled in her nape—they'd fall. His gleeful face scrunches to squinty thought as he circles his loot, stumped, then snarled in silent curses. Hello again, regret.