Hunger is a shadow hanging over them all, like a talon-bird ready to strike. It makes Dunny's fur prickle and his face ache with a near-permanent frown: he worries about Viper, who needs all the food he can get -- he remembers how hungry he got, at that age -- and about the colony, straining under the weight of it all. They ought to branch out, extend further away; but Fray's been too sick to do any of that for a while now, so things are more likely than not to stay just like this until something gives. And it'll probably be them: leaf-bare's coming fast, and it gives no quarters.
Perhaps they should strike out on their own, just the two of us -- or as many cats as want to follow, though the thought of being in charge of more than one brother is already giving Dunny hives. But it doesn't feel right to leave everyone to fend for themselves while they try their luck elsewhere. Doesn't feel right to stay, either. There's not much he can do, in the end, except what he's doing: trying to keep his brother fed, and trying to keep the peace, in his own way.
He hears Viper's hiss before he sees his brother, and he makes a sharp turn to head for his direction -- he doesn't like that sound. But when he gets there, there's not much happening: no claws out, and no teeth barred.
"Hey, hey, settle down, little scale,"
he rushes to say, padding up to his sibling. Honestly, he gets where Shade's coming from: Viper can work up one hell of a glare when he wants to, and he does look a little bit like he wants to bite throats rather than his small bit of freshkill.
"No one's stealing your meal-- right?"
Dunny's chuckle has an undercurrent of placation -- he doesn't think these two are likely to pick up a fight for so little, but there have been a
lot of stupid fights, lately, as the prey gets scarce.
