Bearclaw Valley don’t go over the edge

the growl rose in pitch and intensity as events unfolded in a manner perfectly opposed to how the unchild had imagined them. a new shadow cast itself over the den entrance, foreign yet familiar and entirely unwelcome. worse yet, The Feeding Wall was immediately taken with the new presence — as if asperas was not even there!
under any other circumstance, such dire crimes would warrant punishment, drive the shadowmade bearberry to escalation; violence, perhaps, against their own creator. in the right situation, at least in this stage of life, asperas would not hesitate to quite literally bite the hand that fed her.
fortunately for the voidsent little ingrate, a convenient distraction presented itself, thus saving asperas from the ill-advised outburst threatening to rear its ugly head. perhaps in time, she would learn that to lash out against astara would be to shred herself like cheese against the razor edges of her feral birthgiver, and think twice before allowing such impulses to materialize. for now, the tiny beast thought only of their own whims — which presently had latched to the scent of blood with locking crocodile jaws.
the indignant rumble died in asperas's throat, replaced by an exaggerated sniff as her nose lifted to locate the source. the inherently long-winded nature of youthful inquiry was lost on the spiderling, who was soon placated by what seemed like a prompt and attentive response from astara; they had entirely missed the interlude of tiny birdbones crunched between teeth and blood sluiced down ravenous throat, tunnel vision focus filtering all but the saltmetal scent of blood. attention now centered on the limp bloodied wing proffered by her tireless butler, asperas decided the stranger was of little consequence (or rather, completely forgot his existence).
asperas snapped at the dangled gift with little coordination, a drunken piranha in spirit, and caught bloodied feathers first. the spiderling did not react immediately, first taking in the thin metallic taste of bird blood. the wrongness of texture hit next, denoted by the deep wrinkle of her tiny pointed muzzle, and her tongue began to work against the roof of her mouth to expel the foul-feeling feathers. when the last of the feathers spiraled from her jaws, she snatched at the offending wing with all her body weight behind the movement with the goal of retreating to the farthest reaches of the den to tear every feather from it and find the source of that alluring metallic flavor.