figure it’s time someone taught Kiche how to hunt. :P

The seeds that had been planted in him were beginning to grow. Those feelings that had been buried in him by doubt broke through the soil like the grasses that pierced through the snowmelt. The world was waking up, and so was Kiche. Although he was broken, somehow he still remained. The coming spring held strange promises that stirred in his heart. The wolf-who-wished-to-be-a-man could not understand these stirrings. He trotted through the sibilant stalks of grasses, wondering and thinking, although he felt as if he did too much wondering and thinking these days. There was something growing inside of him, he could feel it.

And it scared him.

A sudden flash of brown fur in the meadow grasses caught his eye, distracting him from his burdensome thoughts. Rabbit, he decided, figuring that he had accidentally stumbled upon it and scared it out of its hiding place and its wits. That the little creatures always ran away from him was something he could never understand. He had never been a threat to them, had never tried to eat them. Alright, sure, he was competition, he ate their leaves and their berries, but he wasn’t… he wasn’t some savage. The world in his head never seemed to match up with reality, and this was just one of the many things he could never explain for himself.

Though he abhorred killing and blood and the barbaric practice of hunting, he was suddenly curious. It occurred to him that he didn’t know the first thing about hunting. He was not as worldly as he had thought. But how hard can it be? No matter how he tried to accept the heathens, old, invisible prejudices remained, ones so small he didn’t even notice they were there. Kiche still assumed heathens to be unintelligent, lazy beasts. Hunting, in such a context, could not seem so impossible. Why he felt the need to try it, he couldn’t say. Perhaps it was just because he was hungry, but it felt like there was something else in him too. It was like there was a hungry child growing in him, crying out for food. Real food. That thought brought him to a halt. Real food? Hadn’t he been eating real food all along? What did “real food” even mean?

Lifting his muzzle to the gentle winter breeze, he searched the scent trails for the traces of that rabbit. He found it easy enough. Over the past few months, his nose had grown better with practice. He was no longer quite so deaf and dumb as he had been when he had first stumbled into Relic Lore. Without the caution of a practice hunter, Kiche galloped after the lingering smell. But he was too loud, too obvious. He didn’t realize it, but with every step he drove every creature deeper into their burrows. A half hour ticked past, and now the sun was high in the sky. Frustrated, he gave a small snarl, wondering what he was doing wrong.

Oh hello there!

The brown rabbit appeared to be long gone, since he had somehow managed to lose the trail completely. No matter, there were a thousand scents that wafted towards his nose, scents of other rabbits, deer, and those frighteningly large deer with mammoth-bone crowns. A shudder wracked his spine, and he immediately decided that pursuing such a hulking, feral creature was not worth a being reduced to shattered bones and a bloody pulp. Hesitantly, he swallowed the lump in his throat. Rabbit sounds fine. Rabbits would be easy. So instead, he chose a different scent trail, something that he thought smelled rather like a rabbit.

With this singular purpose he continued on, still unbelievably loud and childishly clumsy. His focus narrowed to include only the rabbit, as he gradually began to ignore the rest of the sights and surroundings and smells. The scent grew more powerful, and he felt as if he was on the cusp of discovery. Inexplicably, his mouth began to water. This is new. The feeling confused the rusty saint, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it. Had the Hollow wolf perhaps been less stupid, he would have caught the hint of a heathen on the wind and turned around. As it happened, he didn’t notice her until he stumbled upon a dark, earthy wolf bloodying her teeth on the very rabbit he had been looking for, and he emitted a small scream. That’s my rabbit! He had no understanding of the careworn phrase “finders keepers, losers weepers.”

But he could see the scarlet smeared on her dirty face, and he thought he could feel the dangerous threat of bloodlust emanating from her. Heathens reacted violently if they were surprised while under the blindfold of bloodlust. This, at least, was firsthand knowledge borne from one too many of his stupid mistakes. For the first time in his life, he chose to react with composure. Well, at the very least, it was what passed for composure with Kiche. Instead of screaming, snarling, throwing up, or throwing himself at her, he sidled up to her with what he imagined was a persuasive, debonair smile. “Ahem,” he cleared his throat to get his attention, hoping he wouldn’t startle her. “I do believe you’re eating my rabbit.” But he supposed she deserved an explanation. With a reluctant pause and a suave grin, he added, “You see, I was tracking that rabbit.” As if that was all there was necessary to “claim” a rabbit. He figured that was how the heathens did it, though he couldn’t have said where he got such an idea from. Certainly not the heathens. But surely she would understand, Kiche thought as his inquisitive amber eyes roamed over the intertwined brown and black threads of her pelt and settled in a verdant sea of green eyes. She looks nice enough. However, the sordid beast had proven time and time again that he was a poor judge of character –not that he had ever tried.

pakuna has an accent, oooh la la~ I'll enjoy this.

Her question was a slap in the face. Beg yer pardon? As if she had no idea who he was or what he was saying. And that voice. Kiche couldn't decide how he felt about it's unsophisticated roughness, as if she were some strange bumpkin from the middle of nowhere. Those pale jade eyes were unsettling, fixed in an apathetic, stoic face, and he retreated a step, still faintly plagued by old fears of devil-magic. He wasn't sure if he should believe in devil-magic anymore, but he had to be cautious and take the necessary precautions to defend himself if she should decide to conjure up some voodoo magic. Emotionless and unreadable, the she-wolf was cloaked in foreignness and deadpan face. That made her unpredictable, and therefore dangerous. Perhaps he shouldn't have spoken up so boldly.

Her pronunciation was so weird, though. When she opened her mouth once more, she revealed the entirety of her absurd accent. But the strangeness was... exotic to Kiche, who had grown so accustomed to the cadence of the heathens from these parts. Even if it made her a little difficult to understand, he felt, in an inexplicable way, drawn to her, open to her strangeness. It took him a minute to decipher her question, unused to her way of phrasing things, although he eventually understood that she was making fun of him. Jumping to defend himself, he fumbled for a justification, "But I've never hunted before!" Of course he needed practice, he had never even tried before. But... he was willing, wasn't he? He was willing to learn from this alien woman, whose apathetic mask could have obscured an infinite number of knowledge and secrets.

sorry about the wait! Busy week at school and my muse is collapsing. So this will probably be short and bad.

Her meticulous stare disturbed him as it clung to him. What? What are you thinking? But she gave nothing away, and the silence yawned between them, a pause both expectant and awkward for Kiche, who could only stare back at her in hopes that she would say something, do something, that he could assign a meaning to. Was that a smile he saw? For a moment, he could have sworn there had been some curl in the corner of her mouth, but whatever there had been was gone, disappearing before he could decide if he had even seen it. Anxious and out of depth, Kiche opened his mouth to speak –to say anything, it didn’t matter, he just didn’t want it to be so quiet.

But she spoke first. Abruptly, he snapped his mouth shut.

What? A male like… himself? What did that even mean? If anything, males like Kiche never hunted. And what on Earth was a fox’s tale? The lost saint stared stupidly at her, blinking several times as he floundered to make sense of this foreign wolf’s diction and syntax. She’s so WEIRD. But he could hear the incredulity in her tone, the surprise and the disbelief. “No, it’s.. it’s true!” he barked with a frantic desire to qualify his declaration, “I don’t… I… eat berries! And leaves. They’re not… very good. But. All life is sacred. Right?” Kiche began to trip up on his words as he fought to find the words that would make her understand. His speech came haltingly from his mouth, and it frustrated him that he could not quite explain himself.

When the strange, earthen female asked him after his pack, though, he balked slightly. Oddly enough, this was the first time he had ever really heard… what he referred to either as a cult or Grizzly Hollow called a pack. He just hadn’t really found the time to discuss “pack” life with others. The word just never came up. Pack? On some level, Kiche understood by the context clues that she was asking after the Hollow. “Oh… well, yes. I live in Grizzly Hollow. Back,” without warning, he threw his muzzle back over his shoulder, gesturing towards the forest off in the distance obscured by the tall grasses. “Back that way.” With a shrug, he looked back at her, his smile sheepish, “But sometimes I just feel like I’m not suited for… pack life. I don’t… fit in.” And hunting was just the beginning. But why was he explaining this to her? What did she care?

Pakuna looked in skepticism at Kiche as he told her
that he only ate prey food. "Aye, life be sacred"she
huffed, eyes watching him as she began to pace a bit.
"Doesn't mean ye can't eat it, though. Ye just appre-
ciate what ye kill." She hoped she made sense, for
she could not really explain what she meant. Every time
she made a kill, she took a moment to appreciate the
creature in which she had taken the life from. She was
thankful that wolves were animals that hunted rather
than were the ones being hunted.


Drawing in a breath, she listened as the wolf spoke of
his pack. Grizzy Hollow. Interesting. Her mind began
to stir, wondering what those were like....were they plant
eaters also? Thinking of this, she almost released
hearty chuckle, but held it in. But then, Kiche had said
he doesn't fit in. "What kind of role do ye have in yer
pack, then?" She felt odd just asking him questions
without knowing his name. She felt as if she was
catechizing him. She felt her face grow warm- a blushing
sensation. Closing her lids, she rolled her eyes a
herself. Opening her eyes again, she looked back at
Kiche. "I be Pakuna, by the way...." she said it
almost inaudibly, her ears suddenly flattening. She felt
a bit bad for this wolf. He would definitely need to learn
to hunt his own food. Should she teach him? Maybe he
didn't want help....she could not tell.

That this strange little creature agreed that life was sacred was unexpected. While she did appear different in many respects, Kiche had still assumed that she was so... heathen-like. The Heathens of the Hollow had never exhibited any real care for the blood they shed or the necks the broke. They were just senselessly violent morons who had no idea of the greater scheme of things, the interconnectedness of things, the quiet beauty of nature —something Kiche himself had just discovered. Suddenly this foreigner seemed far more attractive to his bright, firebrand eyes that were desperate for someone that understood and believed. Yet she continued, explaining that it was okay to kill as long as you took the time to appreciate your kill. Abruptly, he cocked his head, staring at her from behind two uncertain questions. Did saying grace make it okay? Did that excuse it? He couldn't begin to decide.

The Saint of the Hollow was unsure of how to grapple with the next question she threw at him. What was his role? Did the children count? But he hadn't spoken them in ages. It was all he could come up with, though. "Well, I teach the young ones of our pack. I... I'm like a priest." But would she know what a priest was? Her accent, while it reflected a different manner of thinking and an unknown background, it did not imply an understanding of the faith and religion of human suburbia. "I... I see that they're brought up as good, religious folk."

When finally the young lady offered a name, he had to smile. Smiles were as rare as rain on a face much more naturally contorted into a snarl. It was a new feeling, sharing a smile with someone who wasn't... Aisling. But with a shake of his head he tossed her from his mind —for the time being. The curling mouth greatly impoved Kiche's ginger face, which regrettably commonplace, though not ugly. "Pakuna," he repeated softly, saying it out loud to himself. Then he offered his own name —not Kiche, he didn't use that with... with friends— "They call me Fatman." Although no one here called him Fatman.