Skífa had spent the last two evenings heading south, and on the morning of the third day, he found the entrance of Sunbeam Lair. Now, he stood cautiously at its threshold. His head was slung low, his eyes narrowed and discerning. The rising sun cast shards of bright, prismatic colors into the shadows; cold condensation pirouetted from the cavern's dark mouth like fog, twisting up into the cloudy sky. He could smell the dampness inside, the smell of wet rock and musty plants.
He had lived on carrion and snowmelt for the last two weeks, and he was ravenously hungry. But he briefly forgot this as he gazed into the wide, gaping Lair with its mica-flecked walls and toothy, dripping icicles, its muck piles of decayed brown pine needles tucked in around crenellations of fallen rock, its carpet of crinkled autumn leaves and silver-green moss and lichen. The cavern was almost alluring.
Skífa began to limp slowly inward, advancing into the warm, damp shadows behind the rays of sunlight. As his eyes adjusted, he saw pools of dim gray-blue light farther back in the cavern; there must be holes in the ceiling, he thought. There might be something worth finding, then - maybe carrion, if something had fallen through one of those holes. Or an old food cache perhaps, or some small animal who'd turned this shelter into its winter den. Skífa gnashed his teeth together and prowled deeper in.
If nothing else, maybe it'd be a good place to rest for a while. At least until his leg healed up.
Her injuries had been healing thanks to the attention of
@Augustine. Even though things still hurt and were hard to manage, she wasn't completely useless at hunting and there was the possibility that she might even survive the run in with
@Siarut. The cat was alive, at least, which was more than she had thought she might be a couple of weeks ago.
She'd pushed herself on back toward her old headquarters of the Sunspires. She knew now that no wolf packs claimed the area, and so she felt it might be okay to start venturing back near it. She had a significant limp. She had grown quite skinny, though not emaciated. Her ribs showed easily through what should have been a muscled, thick body. The likelihood that she would survive the winter seemed to dim every day that she spent resting and healing. Her body smelled of the ill, especially since the strange herbs that Augustine had applied clung to the skin. Umi had been unable to bathe effectively for some time, so the odour of wolf and plants stuck.
In the cavern, she thought she might be safe.
But the scent of a wolf entered, and it was not Augustine. When that happened, she silently threw herself into a corner of the cavern into a ball. However, the scent from her was strong, obvious, and thick with illness.
What he found was not at all what he expected.
First, he found the smell of sickness. Something to eat, if he could kill it. The smell made his stomach twist on itself in hunger and revulsion. Then he discovered the stench of wolf and herb. Then mountain lion, underneath it all. In the gloaming darkness of the lair, he unearthed, at last, the source. The feline was molded into a dense ball of herself, ribbed and slender looking and hurt, it seemed. Tucked in a corner. Trying to make herself small. Trying to hide?
Skífa dropped his head low and stared hawkishly at the cat, his gaze razor-sharp and fixed on her. His hackles bristled into a thicket of wolf hair over the pointed peaks of his shoulder blades. He began pacing slowly, just a few limping steps back and forth. Debating with himself. He could try to kill her. She might be weak enough to take down, and she would be something to eat, anyway. But cats were tricky - even a sick cat had claws - and he was also weak and injured. Worst of all, he was alone. And judging by the scents on her, she might've already tangled with a wolf and won.
Skífa shot her a leering smile. "You a wolf-hunter, huh, little cat?" He didn't know if cats could understand wolves. Really, he didn't care, either way. He wasn't talking for her benefit; he just wanted to know how lucid she was before he committed to any action. Maybe he could wait her out - and she'd die on her own - and he could find out what a mountain lion tasted like.
He was thin. Young. As he paced about her, she became very uncomfortable and leaned forward onto her paws, bent low to the ground, ready to find an "out" to flee. Her eyes were wide and heavily dilated. The wolf looked like any other wolf to her, but his stare unnerved her. Umi noticed his limp as he moved. It should have relaxed her, but after Siarut, she wasn't willing to take chances.
His smile was strange and prevented her from relaxing at all, especially as his words fell and caused her to flinch in shock. Her ears were flat against her skull. A
whirring feline growl came from the depths of her throat, fear taking over. She stopped making this sound only to respond in words.
I-I would never hunt a wolf,
she answered, trying desperately to sound strong, but very aware that her condition couldn't be more obvious. Fear held her hostage.
In spite of herself she let out a soft hiss, tail flicking about nervously.
He recognized that look in her eye. The primal fear of a hunted animal. She throttled a growl at him, and Skífa immediately backed off, his limp more pronounced in retreat. He pinned his ears against his head and crouched, ready to flee if she rushed at him. Never did he take his eyes off the cat. His heartbeat pounded in his chest.
When she hissed at him, he bared his teeth. But then he covered them and gave her a flat look. "No?" He snorted. "You survived being a picky eater all this time, hm?" He seemed bitterly amused, but then his nose wrinkled slightly. "You stink of wolf," he accused. He was certain, now, that he didn't have a chance against her. She had enough fight in her to kill him, he thought. But - "I'd be stupid to believe you. Because you are hungry. So am I."
Though the wolf took a several steps back, she did not relax, still hunched over and halfway into a scuttling position that she could swiftly make an escape with needed. Umi had no idea what he might want with her. She didn't know why the white wolf had attacked her, either. She didn't really know why Augustine had helped her, either. Wolfkind was a mystery. They were inconsistent animals. She did not like this one. She was scared of him.
Her nose twitched, and she would not make eye contact with him, watching him from sideways glances. Her movements were as if in slow motion. She didn't respond to his strange question, taking it at face value instead of understanding it as a crude joke. Then, the thin canine said he was
hungry, at which she
spat nastily out of instinct. She feigned a startled attempt at a lunge, but really only shifted her position to do so. She had no heart in such defense.
The brown one helped me. H-he used plants,
once again, her speech began to fall apart as he pressed, and her eyes were glassy.
Please don't hurt me,
she pleaded, though she knew well that it was likely no use.
Like the white one, he was probably a monster too. There seemed many more than she'd ever thought in this world.
He skittered back even further as she lunged toward him. But it was only a feint. He lingered lankily by the entrance to the Lair, not really sure what to do anymore. When she told him about the healer and his plants, Skífa snorted. He'd met someone like that too when he'd been sick a while ago. The Good Healer. The Good Healer had hunted down a mountain lion before. Skífa wondered if he would have killed this one, or helped her.
Skífa couldn't help her, though. And he couldn't kill her either.
Her plea made his ears fall back to his head again. Finally, ever so slowly, Skífa looked away. He looked to the side, sharp copper eyes grazing across the floor, deliberately removing his attention from her. He half-expected her to charge at him again, while his guard was lowered. If only his old mates could see him now; even a little soft-heartedness would get him killed, they'd remind him. They would have made sure of it, too, if mother nature didn't kill him first.
"Shh." He skulked to the exit of the den.
"Good luck, little cat." He still avoided looking directly at her. But he smiled again, anyway, to himself if not to her. He loved to smile. All the bitterest, and wickedest, and cruelest smiles - and the nicer ones, too, sometimes. It reminded him of the strength in his teeth.
"Find somewhere better to hide. High up - to stay away from wolves, huh?"
After a blink, he'd duck back out into the wintry morning and limp into the snow, as tirelessly as he could, searching for somewhere else to rest or something else to eat.
exits, unless she tries to keep him from leaving :)