Bramblepoint two hundred miles through the deepest dark forest

Sunlight broke through a heavy cloud bank, piercing his eyes and causing them to burn. For the better part of the day, the world had been cast in shades of gray and brown, and the weather unfavorable. The coyote had thinly needled his way into the wood for cover, though the bare canopies did little to shelter him from the sting of the wind and snow. He had bedded down in underbrush, though rest had done little to make the weather relent. So he had stirred and plucked himself back up again, venturing out to the edge of the woodland only now to have the sun sting his eyes to match the bitterness of the day.

Rickshaw chuffed to himself as he surveyed the landscape beyond the cover of the sparse wood, neither pleased nor grateful for his evasion of the weather's worst. The skies beyond showed promise of clouds to return soon, but his gaze held steadfast to the underbrush beyond as he ventured along the edge of the forest. In such a profoundly new place, he felt necessity to keep moving in spite of the weather; predators and other scavengers were abound, their tracks evident in the mud he had seen, their calls in the quiet nights crystal clear. Though he had not eaten in a day or two, hunger did not gnaw at his sides yet he felt the urge to scavenge all the same. His intent came naturally, for there were no doubt morsels to be found left behind, if not cast down from the birds in their lofty roosts.

A spring entered his step and he bounced forward; a mouse had been started in his trek through the decay of formerly dry grass, now damp from the snow. This would do, his body proclaimed as he snatched it up and made a go of swallowing it whole, only to hear the squeak of his quarry as he crushed it between his teeth. Down his gullet it went, and off the rangy canine continued as though he had no care in the world.

hrsta — lime kiln

Roll a 5 in 1d5 and you can eat him! #risky

It’s decided that this life isn’t for him.  It’s too exhausting and the animals are all bigger than he is.  They’re also dumber.  But stronger.  Stupid and strong don’t make the best combo, apparently.  He misses the bowls of food left available for him in different neighborhoods he made rounds to and the occasional company of another cat—as long as they knew he’s the boss of the Starbound Drive—and the amount of children he produced?  He misses them, too.  He doesn’t even know their name, but he misses them.  

Carrots just misses company.  He needs to find his way back home.

With a sigh, he weaves through the foliage as he tries to find something to stalk.  The rodents and vermin in the city were fatter and had more meat on them.  It’s a risk taking them if they’d gotten into rat poison.  The same fate would fall himself if he weren’t careful.  

Up ahead, however, he catches the sight of another creature.  It doesn’t quite look like the two wolves he’d come across already but it didn’t really look like a dog either.  HE narrows his olive eyes as he gobbles up a mouse with ease.  Carrots’ jaw drops and he steps forward, a little frustrated he can’t find his own dinner.

“HEY!”

Big bad Carrots isn’t so big and bad out in the wild, willing to ask some weird animal for help.  Maybe this one won't try to eat him.

Scarcely moments further into his bound, a voice called out. It isn't enough to immediately halt the rangy coyote and his actions, but such does so not even a couple more pounces further. His eyes scan around him curiously in wonder of whom had called after him, but he saw nothing rushing towards him. Not a wolf, not a coyote, not even some hulking beast from beyond to come and give him chase. It would not have surprised him if such a thing happened; it had happened before, no doubt would happen again.

And then, movement. A dark shape slinking along like some big cat on the prowl through the mismatched foliage. It captured his attention swiftly but is soon discredited when he realizes that it nothing more than a small feline, and Rickshaw turned to fully face it. So small, like he, and yet very unlike him at all. He waited for the cat's features to become distinct to him, to see those dark whiskers that fanned out ornately from its little face.

He sprang forward again, jaws open with glee, and wondered if he would get the jump on it. There were no thoughts of whether or not it was alone, or if its parents were nearby. No, the coyote had found himself a kitten to play. Too bad for its parents, he thought, perhaps they had abandoned it.

Sorry for my short post.

Carrots didn’t know what he expected because the moment he shouted at the larger creature, he’d gained his attention and not in the way he wanted. The coyote leaps forward and he ran back a few steps, crisscrossing in his path.  He doesn’t run far, getting just out of reach of snapping jaws, before he turns around and curves his backward.  He hisses, spitting at the canine as his fur bristles up.  One paw hovers over the ground, toes curling so his claws extend, and quickly he swats at the coyote should he get any closer.

And to roll to see if he can have Mr. Carrots: 7

Oooh, feisty; Rickshaw's teeth seemed to glean as he snapped after the feline. His pursuit only went so far as the little feline arched up and hissed. It spat, it swatted, it was generally on the defense against him. The grin that stretched the length of his muzzle was comically grotesque, putting all those pearly whites on display as he could not help but wonder what flavor a tiny kitten had. Why, if he could just catch it, it would be a feast worthy of a scavenger such as him, because he didn't have to scavenge for it. Coyotes could hunt too, only Rickshaw tended to avoid it. Buzzards were a problem, or turkey vultures; hell, he didn't know what sort of carrion hung around. Crows, that was his guess.

So in a moment of nonchalance as he seemed to play the deterred card, he formulated his plan to try and catch the wily feline. His steps carried him a few short stomps to the left before turning back to the right, and he whined pitifully as though he were confused. Then, abruptly, the coyote surged forward with jaws snapping, figuring that even if the cat tried to hook him, he could have a tasty meal out of it anyway. It wouldn't hang onto him long if he snapped it in half, right?

The other creature still comes even with the threat of sharp claws and teeth. He may be smaller but with little daggers on his side, he hopes to deter the other long enough to change his mind. He gets a few steps away but the coyote jumps forward with snapping jaws as the feline tries to flee and he's halted by a sudden pull of his spine. Carrots hisses and his body arches away, legs falling out from beneath him as he's pulled by his tail. With his back curved against the ground and arching the front half of him forward, both front feet alternating my seat at the canine's face.

trying again because why not: 10

While he didn't catch the part of the feline that he wanted, the tail would do. But it was a moment of confusion and surprise when he realized he had latched onto anything at all, and the somersaulting cat in his grasp almost prompted him to let it go. That was a mistake on his part not to let it go, because little did Rickshaw know was how lightning fast a cat could fold in on itself and change direction in a definite fight-or-flight situation. The sharp claws raked across his muzzle, light enough that the damage there would be superficial, but enough that the coyote released his grasp on it.

But the next time, he was prepared as he lunged after it. Surely this time?

Last post!

The next thing Carrots realizes is he’s spinning and he flails, slinging all four limbs around unti he touches the ground.  He’s able to swat at the coyote’s nose enough to draw blood but he doesn’t revel in the victory too long when the other is on him again.  Rickshaw isn’t giving up, aiming for him, before he’s able to gather his mind long enough to get free.  He stumbles on the ground a few steps but soon the coyote is on top of him, teeth around him and puncturing him.  Carrots twists his slender body, trying to get a few more swats in, even tries to snap his jaws at the other, before he can’t move anymore.

There's a bit of annoying flailing going on before Rickshaw felt like he had a proper hold on the tiny feline. Of course, the batting and swatting and sting of drawn blood do little to deter him in the mess of it all, as in a mocking, if not almost feline way he can't help but play with the critter a bit.

And then it happens, some sort of snap! sound that wasn't there. Suddenly, mister kitty isn't doing so hot in his grasp and instinct seemingly overrides whatever enjoyment he'd be getting out of it; Rickshaw only lifts up the tender heap of delicious morsels and bits and carts him away.

Boys, we're having kitty souffle tonight. Or something.