Wapun Meadow New is always better

the boy of rust and orange stood proud -- confident even. astara eyes lit in amusement -- how long would it take to strip that confidence from him? how many bites to strip that pretty red fur?

she paused as he craned his head towards her, insistent. but he forgot -- the meadows were hunting grounds to the blackbird and her ilk, and she believed it her was her right to consume or inspect any that entered.

astara's tail whipped upward with a crack, her ears pressing assertively forward -- no, she insisted, waiting for retaliation as she thrust her nose along his fur and nape, finding little in the way of scents that could tell the story on how a pretty little boy like him ended up on her lawn.