𝚂𝚄𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝙻 𝚁𝙰𝚉𝙴𝚁-𝙱𝚄𝚁𝙽 ◈『 𝚅𝙰𝙼𝙿𝙸𝚁𝙴 』

[Smogmaw.]

Hunting while day reigns feels like an exercise in futility. Too broad, too solid, the tom's sheer breadth is a herald of his own presence under the sun's rays, a tribute to everything that stealth is not. Half the time stumbling awkwardly into ice-enamelled divots of earth, the other half cursing the shrubs that keep snagging at his paws, the whole while huffing a frosted mist in exasperation. It's hard not to sulk. Come nightfall, and the picture is entirely different; but at this very moment, Smoky might as well just be shouting his intentions from a mountaintop.

He'd love to tell himself he'll find his groove in this new territory. Find his footing, so to speak, so that he may tread more than a fox-length in silence. The thought refuses to settle, elusive as a feather in a blustering win. Pouty like a kit, double as hungry, his mood worsens the longer he wanders the bog. This place is far denser and thicker than the colony's surrounding wood. More humid. Rife with unfamiliar foliage. And yet, not a single squirrel, hare or grouse in sight.

An odour breaks his brooding once he shins down a dip in terrain. Musk. Decay. His snout follows its source, the rest of him trotting alongside, and brings him to a slumped creature in a shallow pool of ice-cold water. In its brackish liquid are thick white spikes, long and narrow and fringed. What a bizarre, gangly creature. Brows arch high, mouth pulled taut. Fascinated and wary all at once, and stupefied above all else, the tabby inches closer while trying to figure out the strange anatomy.

"What're you, then?"* Smoky mutters to the stiff carrion. Its head is bowed halfway into the waterline, mouth propped open in its desperate bid for a final breath. "Beaver? Wait, no-" It didn't have the tell-tale tail. Couldn't be a raccoon with mange, could it?

Whatever it is, it's stuck in the bogmuck and has a decent weight to its torso. Cautious paws deign to enter the water. With his nose, he presses at the one patch of spineless flesh to test the integrity of the creature's soft-looking underbelly. To his delight, the give is a telling sign of edibility. "Eh, food's food," is all the thought that's given to the situation's peculiarity, and, without any further fanfare, Smoky happily tears into his meal.

---

* Porcupine
@vampire

 

[vampirebite]

Picking her way through the pocosin, Vampire finds herself pleasantly surprised at how fast she has adapted. A huntress he is not (and may never be), but a huntress of cats? Well, she might shape up to that, in time—the velvety silence of her motions through the pocosins seems a hopeful indicator, at least. She's finally found a use for her limited height and compact body. If not for his stark white pelt, he thinks he could disappear entirely into the swampy glade, never to return.

Useful for eavesdropping and slitting throats she may prove to be; for the moment, however, each frog and skink evades her grasping claws. The prospect of a not-so-fresh meal seems to be dwindling in her future, moments from blinking unceremoniously out, when her well-trained nose catches wind of something pre-killed for her. Perfect.

" Oh, "

she notes with a trace of disappointment. Cresting the hill to claim her mouldering prize, she finds Smoky already muzzle-deep in the belly of her intended prey. It is a uniquely ugly beast, a leaden lump of flesh lined with needles. Its appearance is evidently no indication of its taste, though, for the silver tabby is tearing into it with evident enthusiasm.

" What have you got there? "

They cock their head, talking half for the sake of appearing to have more to do than glance enviously at his questionably fresh meal. He blinks, gaze roaming almost clinically over the prey-thing's spiny body and ratlike, death-glazed face. Dryly, she adds,

" It's nice to see our new territory's ability to produce strange and ugly things in action. "

They pause

" Looks good, though. "

​

 

[Smogmaw.]

Those soft meaty parts of the mystery-beast were more akin to rotten fruit than a savoury slab of flesh. Muscle shouldn't fall apart so easily beneath his teeth, surely? Still, hunger dictates that the tom devours it, snapping away bits and consuming them despite the accompanying distaste. Lips curled at a disgruntled angle, his paws squish into the damp ground under his weight, half-in and half-out of the water.

Swallowing another mouthful, he lifts his head from his meal, breathing a sigh while hoping the food may settle in his stomach. Before his brain even registers the sound of encroachment upon him, his reflexes have him swiftly shifting position. The flat of his spine rolls inward, compacting his torso so that he may loop in around his prey, possessively edging a paw to ward against interference.

Then, he sees it is only Vampire. Glancing along the hill's crest, where they crouch and look down at him, Smoky eases. Some tension has bled from his face. "Hey. This?" A broad paw gestures at the creature he'd taken to picking at. "If I knew, I'd tell ya. Never seen a thing like it before, but it ain't moving, so it's food."

There is a long pause after the molly speaks. "Y'wanna try some?" His head tilts in a nonchalant sort of gesture, a nod towards the carrion as he steps aside for them to approach. "It's all soft 'cause it's been sittin' a while, but... eh. Tastes better than skink." Smoky punctuates the polite invitation by cleaning a smear of blood from his chin.