Kestral commission

The forest had an odd feeling of stillness, despite the constant noise and movement within its depths. Within the whirling chaos, there was peace.

 

There were many sounds that reached the wolf’s keen ears, though most were drowned out by the light crunch of leaves underpaw, hidden within the long, dying grass. His surroundings were bright with the vibrant colors of autumn, shades of gold and red painting the foliage. It made the hunter’s own fur look dull in comparison.

 

It was early morning, and creatures were stirring within the newborn rays of sunlight that managed to make its way through the tightly interwoven branches of the trees. It dappled the area in light and shadow as birds preened, basking in the warmth and occasionally calling out their individual songs to the world. The shrill chirps of their joy were something that could be heard through most of the early morning patrols, and though the wolf had heard them often, he never ceased enjoying the noise.

Many times had he been on these journeys through the area, vigilantly noting the subtle changes of Mother Nature. While his family was also willing to contribute to the watch of their lands, it was rare that they had a chance to- Roxas always insisted on doing it himself, and he would not accept the help of his siblings.

 

For many years he had been the guardian of the family, and while he was more than happy to speak and laugh with his littermates, for the most part, he was silent, content in his place. He had been the one to start the ritual checks for danger in all its forms, and by now, it had become the unspoken rule that he was the only one to do so.

 

Live was never too easy, each turning season with it’s own struggles, but they never suffered for want. Droughts, poisons, predators…each came and went in turn, leaving an eternal mark on the earth, but each time they prevailed.

 

They had fought for their survival, and had the scars to prove it.

 

The recently passed summer had been hot, but rainy, sparing them from a dreaded drought. It had been an abundant year, and, aside from the occasional human, without much fuss. Each passing summer more and more of the humans started staying in their plastic shelters for several days at a time, and as time passed, it became harder and harder to avoid them. The taller ones, which were assumed to be the mature humans, normally stayed in one place, but the younger were an entirely different matter. From some of the creatures the height of the wolves to those almost as tall as the adults themselves, a variety of different younglings often ventured out, and proved to be very curious about the hunters. One of the elders, a cocky thing with sun-darkened skin, had, a year before, dared to bring one of the long gray sticks the humans often carried into the forest with him in one of his ventures.

 

The pack had been relaxing at the time, enjoying a moment of peace, despite the terrible heat. Much of the prey in the area had moved on to places with more abundant food and more chances of survival, leaving the wolves lean with hunger and desperate for prey.

He was loud, without a care for the actions his behavior might cause. Two others went with him, occasionally pitching in with one of their own noises that the small pack was unable to understand. He had been the first one to be grudgingly roused from his dozing and realize that they were being intruded upon.

 

Soon after, the humans were upon them, though they didn’t seem to even notice the dull browns and grays of matted pelts that lay sprawled about a hundred feet away. Roxas had risen, slowly; eyes trained on the approaching humans, and gave a low bark and nuzzle to one of his littermates. With barely any time spent, all were roused, naturally falling into their positions.

 

This was not the first time having a close encounter with a human, but it would be the first they did not run away from.

 

It seemed, as only a few short yards separated the crouched, feral creatures from the trio, that they finally noticed their presence. A bluff, an attempt at intimidation was their first option, for it was already too late to run.

 

Too late.

 

The humans did not seem to care, for the tallest of the three was lifting his gun. Roxas guessed the reason for his slow movements; many humans did so, when seeing them, presumably to keep from startling the canines into action.

 

It had not worked.

 

As the gun was raised and finger moved to the trigger, Roxas moved blindly. A lunge, and strong, relentless canine teeth fastened around his neck. The other two ran, but for the bold one, it was too late. It was a meal, enough to let them survive the prey-lacking season for a little while longer.

 

Roxas sighed. That had been his recent and unofficial rise to their makeshift protector, and though he loved being able to contribute, the threat of failure and the entire pack falling apart loomed over him at all times.

 

Perhaps he didn’t notice the movement as soon as he normally would have if he had not been so wrapped up in his thoughts. Perhaps he could have fled and been safe, had he been alert as he should have been.

 

Perhaps.

 

Eventually, it caught his eye, and he stopped, staring into the tree. If it weren’t for the slow, subtle curve in the movement, he would have thought it was just a branch dancing in the autumn wind.

But no…tree limbs did not curl.

There was no more time to think, and no more time to prepare, before the cougar was upon him in a frenzy of claws, teeth, and fur, paired with a bloodcurdling yowl.

 

Roxas did not notice, as a flock of birds, alarmed, took to the skies in a loud, synchronized flapping of wings. He blindly bit at the large paw that swiped at him, and twisted away from the big cat’s grip. It was a struggle, large jaws furiously and repeatedly biting at limbs until he was rewarded with a loud, pained help, and a second’s distraction from his assailant.

 

He used the opportunity to move away, slowly backing further and further as he watched the attacker. Finally, as the feline rolled to its feet and shook itself off, he had a short moment’s opportunity to size up his opponent.

 

Young and scrawny, but still much bigger than him. Judging by the lack of scars across his pelt, aside from those recently inflicted by unrelenting teeth, the young female had little or no experience fighting.

 

Those were the last thoughts he managed before the cougar was attacking him again with renewed fury. Cougar’s weren’t exactly common in these parts �"foothills of the mountains-, but it was not an impossibility for one to have wandered down the slopes to the pack lands.

 

How long they fought, he did not know, but in the biting and clawing that ensued, both dealt blows to their opponents. Both were now spattered in blood, their one and the other species’, but neither managed to deal a decisive attack.

 

It occurred to Roxas, as he fought -more on the defensive than launching his own attacks- that this stupid young thing thought a wolf was prey, to be easily taken down. The prey must have moved completely away from the mountains, driving this hungry feline down the mountain. It’s parents most likely starved, leaving the not quite yet mature cougar unsure of what it could safely bring down, and what it couldn’t.

 

But there was no option for Roxas to let the creature go, for it was not going to give up any time soon.

 

At this point, it was kill or die.

 

His strength was declining rapidly, and it became a hassle to keep up his attacks. The realization that death was a likely possibility was beginning to set in, when he numbly heard a sickening crack between his jaws.

 

There was no more movement. No more struggling. It was over.

 

The thoughts were slow to trickle into his mind, and for a while, his instincts still screamed for his worn body to keep fighting. When no claws lashed at his pelt, he finally pulled himself away from the tangle of bodies, glancing towards the bloody body.

Dead. There was no doubt about it. Grimly satisfied, despite his weariness and pain from his wounds, he turned away.

 

He was panting hard, lungs aching, finding breathing more difficult than he remembered it ever being. The sting of wounds across his skin sharpened with each ragged breath taken, and he could feel some warm liquid trickling through his fur and down his limbs. Roxas glanced down at the ground, slowly becoming stained red, and barely registered that it was blood.

 

At first, he tried to take a hesitant step forward, but his weight fell onto a weak limb, and collapsed beneath him. The pain jolted through him once more, and Roxas almost felt as if his very bones ached.

 

He did not bother trying to stand, instead settling down into the bloodstained grass, closing his eyes, and letting the ebony of blissful unconsciousness cover his mind.