Silvertip Mountain Headed towards a fucked up holiday

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The door in front of her closed and Kitsch knew she was now entirely responsible for finding a solution to their mutual woes. Prialux deemed it a futile effort to try and find her family, an affirmation that both pleased and dismayed the temptest. Kitsch knitted her inkbrushed eyebrow together in distinct thought — not that Prialux could glimpse the consternation carved upon upon her’s big spoon’s visage, so Kitsch let out an airy “hmmm” to denote her thinking.

When Prialux suggested hunting, Kitsch gave a small huff; another thing she couldn’t do!  Kitsch had the skill nor the strength to feed herself even herself [famine was an affair that Kitsch knew keenly]. But, hunting was a peasant’s game anyways and Kitsch had no desire to partake in it… despite her initial aversion to such an invitation, Kitsch couldn't help but regarded the pale, shivering girl kindly. The small vagabond had won her affinity and her wellbeing hung in the balance, so Kitsch would find a way.  “I’m no good at hunting…”  she responded hazily, eyes darting to and fro, as if a rabbit would be standing right there saying “pick me! pick me!” Alas, no rabbit was.

Despite her reservations, Kitsch knew her pack’s cache’s were likely still their best bet for a quick meal. “I can get you something from my pack’s caches,” the shewolf, scarcely older than the girl she cradled, suggested with sudden optimism. She was proud to have solved yet another of problems she came across, even if it did involve stealing food from her current court and absconding with it to feed another. Suddenly forgetting the immediacy of Prialux’s hunger in the pride, Kitsch settled her head contentedly upon Prialux’s withers and let out a small huff. It was nice to have a friend.

“What your name? I’m Kitsch?”

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