Stavanger Bay you don't own me

sucessful famine hunt roll; pls excuse cruddy post, still trying to get a feel for stitch :0

She caught it! The seagull let out a loud, offensive wail as she trapped it's plump little body between her paws, her ears slicking back in resentment of the feathered beasts' protest, her face drawing back as she blinked away from it, letting out an yelp of pain when the feathered fiend pecked her! “Oww-ch,” She drew in a disgruntled hiss — because obviously she was not accustomed to her food being so salty. “Chillout with your saltiness.” Stitch drew, with a soft 'tch' noise. The instinct to loosen her grip and withdraw on the struggling avian was a strong one, but unfortunately for the seagull Stitch's primal survival instincts were much stronger. Figuring she'd talked to her food enough she grasped the seagull's neck betwixt her jaws and snapped it's neck with minimal effort, the bird's body going limp between her paws. She released her grasp upon it's neck and spit out a few feathers, scraping her tongue across her canines and staring down her muzzle as she tried to spit and blow off the feathers stuck to her lips.

“Gross, ugh,” She spoke to herself over the gentle roar of the ocean as the waves lapped up at the beach — where she lowered herself into a comfortable, sphinx-like position on the warm sand, just out of the ocean's reach. The ocean didn't bother her and truthfully, neither did seagulls. As a pup she'd had a seagull friend — Frank, which she realized happened to be all of Ikkuma's seagull regulars for there had been no way for her discern which one was the one she'd dubbed Frank and which one ...wasn't Frank. Her tolerance towards the dirty sea birds didn't extend, however, into eating them. She hated eating birds. Feathers were a pain in her butt and if given a choice she would have much rather had crab, elk or venison, in particular; but the trees were bare, like spindly, skeletal fingers and the ground was bare of grass and other foliage that attracted large prey. She could have snooped around for some crabs but Stitch wasn't used to going so hungry for so long and had done the thing she said she'd never do: hunt a bird for food because it was the first thing she'd seen.

Sorry Frank. For a moment she peered down at the bird's carcass sadly, though she was unsure if her sadness was for her puphood “friend” (if that word could even be used to describe it) or herself. How low the Kesuk-DeMonte had sunk; and sunk Stitch had: like the freakin' Titanic. She heaved a sigh before she began to tug mouthfuls of it's feathers with the intent of exposing it's flesh so she could eat it more easily.