this is back-dated before Kiche re-joins the Hollow.

The day was unseasonably, unforgivably warm.

As the temperature began to rise, rain drops began to fall, trickling down in rivers from the ceiling of his willow-house as it slowly melted. Under the bloated weight of wet snow, the roof sagged dangerously. It was as if the house was shrinking, deflating, collapsing And thus was how the morning awoke Kiche. After the third, well-aimed droplet managed to strike his nose, his right eye flickered open with exasperation. That was when his window and door, no longer able to support the burden of snow stacked above them promptly collapsed. Inexplicably Kiche watched the light disappear from the world before his distraught, dismayed right eye. Suddenly he was on his feet, snarling at the drooping walls of what had been his house. What he had once considered to be spacious was alarmingly cramped, far smaller than he had remembered it being the day before. A desperate whine rose out of his throat and he whirled around, unable to find an exit and somehow hoping that by defiance alone he could save his house.

Without warning, the house began to groan as the exhausted, feeble willow limbs let go of their white burden. "No! No no no no!" he cried, his voice rising to a shrill scream as the walls collapsed around him and the ceiling caved in. All at once he was buried in his dream, his beautiful, architectural dream. The cold folded over him. Thrashing and flailing, he fought to escape his crumbling home as snow began to fill his mouth, muffling his screams. He gargled and whined, unable to articulate his overwhelming dread. Vaguely, he was distracted by a single, inappropriate thought: Why, whoever said snow was white! This snow is very clearly black! Like a broken record, this thought replayed and ricocheted off the walls of his skull as he fought against the darkness and snow.

you'll have to forgive Kiche. He has no manners.
also. just for future notice, since there are three of us and it can get kind of confusing knowing when to post, there is a posting order.
[dohtml]KICHE > PUZZLES > SILVER.[/dohtml]

He slipped out of consciousness screaming as a dark wave descended on him, convinced that this was his final moment. Absently, he wondered at the irony of being murdered by the closest thing to civilization. Being murdered by what he loved most of all — who'd have thought? Never would he have suspected that his time with humans would have such a negative backlash, would be the cause of his death. Ironic. Very ironic. As he began to fade away he became increasingly complacent and whimsical. It was as if it were the death of an acquaintance, someone distant and insignificant.

There was no struggle in the end —he merely closed his eyes, exhaled one last time, and relinquished the desperate, firebrand grip he had had on life.

Except he wasn't dead. A warmth began to spread through him and feeling returned to his limbs. What... what is this? As his consciousness romped behind his heavy eyelids, inspecting his body for any serious damage and finding none, he had to admit he was faintly surprised... and perhaps the tiniest bit disappointed. But that tiny bit of him was easily ignored by the resounding conclusion that had been reached. I'm not dead! Awareness returned to him in a flash, and his eyes sprang open. Suddenly, his senses were assaulted by a flood of information about the reality he thought he'd left behind. Heathens. There were two of them... right next to him. TOUCHING HIM. Somehow, between closing his eyes and opening them, he'd gone from being buried in an avalanche to being buried between two savages.

He awoke screaming, teeth flashing out at the first disgusting little devil-worshipper he saw: the white one. Feral and distraught, he lunged for the kill, aiming at the jugular of the female. While she was large, she was still a female.

if you have a hard time understanding my post, this image is a pretty exact picture of what Kiche is trying to do.

Words were meaningless. The two psychologically imbalanced savages were shouting and babbling, throwing epithets and accusations as if they were weapons. Their exclamations bounced off him harmlessly. What were a few rhetorical questions or insults to him? They fell on deaf ears. Kiche was reduced to a primitive banshee, a senseless creature made tense sinew and menacing set of yellowed fangs. He was blinded by instinctual defensiveness consumed by the singular need to protect himself from the heathens. And he would be driven to any lengths to defend himself. Anything. It wasn’t a matter of weighing and considering his options and deciding on a course of actions, he merely acted blindly, wildly.

The smaller heathen was pulling on his tail, as if he were nagging him, merely demanding attention. This was easily ignored. His instincts assessed the situation for him, spitting out data like a computer program: small heathen, of little importance, can be dealt with later. A furious thunder rumbled in his throat. Instead, his instincts told him he ought to focus on the other savage, a larger threat both physically and figuratively. She was older, probably more experienced, but unfamiliar and thus unpredictable. The brindled silver heathen managed to dodge his very obvious attack on her throat; she had good reflexes. In the same motion, she lunged back at him. Not afraid to retaliate, his instincts droned. Since Kiche was not nearly as fast as she was, trying to dodge her advances would be pointless and clumsy. With a snarl, he threw himself upwards to meet her with jaws wide open, snapping once more at her throat, hoping for any bit of skin or fur or blood that he could get. Being a much heavier male, he figured he would hit her with a much greater force and knock her backwards.