two weeks have came and went since scarab was saved by the moonkissed maegi and taken into blackfeather's fold. though he yet remains uncertain of his place among them he settles for now contently into the rank of fledgling. the ranks blackfeather adheres to are different than rusalka's and scarab, during the immeasurable time he's had to ponder and soak them in as eagerly as he could — because, really, he wants to belong — eager to prove to the nona that he does not take her saving his life lightly. so, upon the fourteenth morn he stirs awake — blissfully, this night did not bring with it wretched nightmares of half-supped corpses speaking with the voice of legion — and stretches. his wounds are healed ...or just about. he feels strong enough despite that hunger is a constant companion — but, perhaps cruelly, he is glad he is not suffering alone. large prey has taken flight out of the wilds and all that remain are scrappy and stricken sickly by famine as well. still, he eats anything he can get his paws on. mostly voles, sometimes rabbits and rarely ( if he can catch them ) foxes which offer the most meat.
it's not enough to sate him for long but it keeps him alive and quiets the rumble of his demanding stomach for a few hours.
he tries to not let that nagging voice of legion of his dreams that dredge up from the darkest corners of scarab's mind remind him of how he could once more eat like a king. ...but it was tempting! and scarab is not sure that given the opportunity to sup upon the flesh of a wolf in rigor mortis that he would pass it up.
he feels well enough to make a small jaunt outside of fairspell meadow, figuring that it did him no good to remain cooped up like a grouchy hermit for so long. so begins his search for a place to stash his petrified sandpiper — he finds one eventually: a thick but spindly winterbush that he digs the dirt around a bit and gently tucks his prize inside before nosing the pile around it. he doubts anyone will take it and hopes that no one disturbs it to investigate. he'd once snapped at reyes for it ...he doesn't want to know what he'd do to someone who wasn't his sibling messing around his crowning jewel. satisfied at his handiwork, scarab stretches once more to loosen the stiffness of his muscles and pads out of the marked borders of the meadow and towards serpent lake, knowing that he will not stray too far.
it's not enough to sate him for long but it keeps him alive and quiets the rumble of his demanding stomach for a few hours.
he tries to not let that nagging voice of legion of his dreams that dredge up from the darkest corners of scarab's mind remind him of how he could once more eat like a king. ...but it was tempting! and scarab is not sure that given the opportunity to sup upon the flesh of a wolf in rigor mortis that he would pass it up.
he feels well enough to make a small jaunt outside of fairspell meadow, figuring that it did him no good to remain cooped up like a grouchy hermit for so long. so begins his search for a place to stash his petrified sandpiper — he finds one eventually: a thick but spindly winterbush that he digs the dirt around a bit and gently tucks his prize inside before nosing the pile around it. he doubts anyone will take it and hopes that no one disturbs it to investigate. he'd once snapped at reyes for it ...he doesn't want to know what he'd do to someone who wasn't his sibling messing around his crowning jewel. satisfied at his handiwork, scarab stretches once more to loosen the stiffness of his muscles and pads out of the marked borders of the meadow and towards serpent lake, knowing that he will not stray too far.
“it's a quality of the gods
to see a creature with its back broken
and be unmoved —”
to see a creature with its back broken
and be unmoved —”
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