Bearclaw Valley a descent into the maelstrom

june challenge: quality

Avicus has lived through an entire moon's cycle. she looks far more lupine and less like a grub with each passing day. she has also grown bolder, stepping from the shelter of her whelping den into the open air.

ah, she is still a grub at heart. the darkness is preferable—

but things move out here! her eyes fix on a monarch butterfly, perched on a bush nearby. she crouches low. watching. waiting.

the color of its wings are the most vibrant thing she has seen. Avicus wants them for herself.

It had been a month since the children's birth, and there had been no indication that the pups had failed to survive. She had smelled milk whenever she approached the den with food and if she listened closely she could hear the soft whimpers of the pups deep within the den. 

She arrived at the den with a muskrat swinging in her jaws, expecting business as usual, but finding that the pups were in their adventurous phase. One — reddish in hue but still puppy brown — stalked after a butterfly, its blueish eyes fixated on the insect. Orson did not interfere, merely leaving the muskrat by the den's entrance for the mute mother to find, keeping her eye on the pup.

the woman's approach is a far greater diversion than the butterfly. she turns awkwardly on her heel, the monarch fluttering away at the sudden movement. the wolf is interesting enough, but the. . .other. . .

Avicus slinks toward the muskrat, sniffing at its limp form and cool fur. limp, cool, still. like the worm, which once had moved but moved no longer.

she presses against its side, shaking it with insistent forepaws, then hangs back, a growl gurgling in her throat.

it remains still. cold. limp.

The pup's attention did not remain on the butterfly for long. Soon the maroon child trotted over to the dead rodent sprawled between her legs. Aye, 'tis dead, she tutted. Were they acquainted with death yet? I can bring ye a live one if ye' d like. she smiled at the pup. She refused to use baby talk with children, though she knew that she would confuse the child, especially with her accent. It was worth the challenge, to develop young minds.

other pups have limited vocabularies; Avicus has none. the words mean nothing and the sound perplexes her so greatly that all she can do is ignore it. instead, she gives the furry thing another shove and then stares at the woman, head cocked.

she lifts a forepaw and waggles it, then does the same with the other. her eyes shift to the adult wolf's tail, which has moved within this encounter.

they move, but the brown thing does not. why? what's to stop one from moving? oh, if only she could show the stranger the once-wriggling worm. . . that would prove her point, right?

The child doesn't seem to understand her. They move themself, wiggling one paw and then the other. Orson's brow furrows, trying to glean what the child was attempting to communicate to her. It was like a game of charades.

Perhaps, like their mother, they were mute. Hereditary? Unlikely. More like upbringing. Och, look, she moved the muskrat's head, tilting it towards Avicus. No breath, she breathed, exaggerated, then shook her head. Dead.

the whites of her eyes gleam as she turns to stare at the creature, then back to the wolf-woman. like the stranger, Avicus breathes out, then shakes her head. and then she latches onto the only word that had been repeated so far in this conversation.

dead. except when she speaks aloud, in a childlike voice a little hoarse from unuse, it comes out more like—

deh, she remarks. no, that wasn't quite right. she tries again: dehhht. the ending is quiet as a whisper, but there. the creature is dead. is that a name? a description? what are the wolves?

Mmhm, Orson nodded. It's good eatin' now. 'Specially fer yer ma. Did the pups lose their milk teeth yet? Y'know ma? Mama? she asked, looking down at the round, still-in-progress shape.

she is still mouthing 'dead' to herself when the woman speaks again, and one word cuts through her concentration: 'mama.' she has nothing to associate it with, nothing to apply it to, but it sounds comforting, and as she tries to sound it out silently, it feels nice in her mouth.

muhmuh, Avicus murmurs, and then bends to nose at the dead thing again. it smells different—not at all like a wolf. even its fur is different. she draws her tongue along its cheek and tastes the earth, and pines, and a metallic taste she'll come to know as blood, dried along the corner of its mouth.

she flops to her belly and starts to gnaw on one of the muskrat's forelegs, her milk teeth not quite penetrating the skin. she enjoys the taste.

The child repeats her words, though there is little behind it. Orson shrugs it off. She watches as the little thing gnawed (gummed?) the muskrat's leg, smirking. Tastes good, dinnae? Maybe I'll bring ye a leg of yer own the gnaw on, eh?

she lets go the leg and mimics the look on the woman's face, grinning openly. the expression feels strange on her own countenance, though, and she soon lets it fall once more into her usual impassiveness. takes the dead thing in her mouth again and chews, chews slowly—

she remembers how the worm split open with some pressure and bites until it hurts, and tastes more, skin and blood and bone. her lips are stained crimson, pressed against the new entrance wound.

but it grows wearisome after a while, trying to gnaw on tough flesh with weak teeth. she is not yet ready to leave the teat.

Avicus licks her lips and lifts her head, staring at the woman. dead, she says again, and is pleased to hear it sound much like how the adult had uttered it. it feels right. she feels, suddenly, grown-up.

The child smiles, but Orson did not feel comforted by it. It was not a genuine smile, but a mimic. Like the child was fey-born, a changeling, still learning to infiltrate their society one day at a time. A frivolous tale that her mind had come up with, but it still felt true.

'ere's a bite, love, She tore the fur from the muskrat's leg, then pulled, tearing a stringy piece of bloody flesh off. Since yew's been so interested, she offered the piece to the pup, wondering what they would do next.

a gift then comes, in the form of a piece of the dead thing. she sniffs the proffered meat and then licks it once, twice, thinking—snatching it from the wolf a moment later. like a child with taffy, she chews awkwardly, slightly uncertain but fervent all the same.

she mashes the flesh down to a pulp fine enough that she feels comfortable to swallow. she's barely tasted the thing.

but she likes it. Avicus swipes her tongue over chops, nodding abstractedly, staring down at the creature. she dips her muzzle and tries to take another strip, but her mouth is not yet made for such precision. she makes a bloody mess of the leg instead, gnawing at the exposed sinew.

then she looks to the woman in question, in slight pleading, and lifts her head to sniff at the oh-so-generous mouth. more?

whatever 'more' does or does not come, she eats well, learns, and returns to her den having made a new acquaintance.