Silvertip Mountain Headed towards a fucked up holiday

Note to self: set after Kitsch joined Nwf

Kitsch could almost see her reflection glinting in the hare’s glassy, beadlike eye. The eye was held wide, alert — the creature knew she was there. Kitsch had never been a skilled hunter [had never had to be] but a foreign emotion of guilty drove her to try her hand. The oujo had embarrassed herself at the caches, gorging herself. So Kitsch had been driven to such lengths as to hunt to refill the pack’s coffers. Though the girl was somewhat of a light footed and lithe individual, it seemed that her footsteps fell with the heaviness of a thundering herd. Her prey scattered before her as if there existed a herald before her, shouting her presence for all to hear. Often times Kitsch didn’t even see her prey — only heard it as it skittered off into the underbrush, never to feel her teeth or experience the fear of a true pursuit.

But this hare… yes, it had noticed her, but it did not appear to deign her a threat. It nibbled away but remained ever cognizant of the ink-dipped girl to it’s side, stalking in the background.  Kitsch decided she could not wait one more second for the animal, lest it change it’s mind, so she shot out from her hiding place and moved quickly; but the hare was quicker! With lightening-like movements, Kitsch was led on a chase that led her nearly a mile away from where they started and the young wolf eventually conceded defeat to the tireless vermin. Kitsch’s sides heaved from her efforts, but over the sound of her heavy breath carried a soft aria. A sweet song it was, reminding Kitsch quite fondly of her dear wet nurse, and she was drawn from the forest to a small hole in the ground.

“Hello?” Kitsch called, canting her head towards the hole and not entirely sure what to expect.