Bramblepoint two hundred miles through the deepest dark forest

There's a bit of annoying flailing going on before Rickshaw felt like he had a proper hold on the tiny feline. Of course, the batting and swatting and sting of drawn blood do little to deter him in the mess of it all, as in a mocking, if not almost feline way he can't help but play with the critter a bit.

And then it happens, some sort of snap! sound that wasn't there. Suddenly, mister kitty isn't doing so hot in his grasp and instinct seemingly overrides whatever enjoyment he'd be getting out of it; Rickshaw only lifts up the tender heap of delicious morsels and bits and carts him away.

Boys, we're having kitty souffle tonight. Or something.