Oi, Bastards! BUMPUS HOUNDS!

*Valentine* · 02-09-2019, 08:33 PM

Valentine watched with keen interest as a little brown forehead broke the surface of the water. He lay on the bank beside the river with his legs coiled beneath him and his head resting on the ground between his forepaws so that his profile was low. His ears were pressed flat against his head for the same reason. He was not quite the picture of repose, but he was still enough that if anything glanced at the reeds they might miss him in the shadows.

Of course it was not a happy accident that he lay so close to the dam's entrance just as a beaver exited it. No, Valentine had known about this spot for years. It was likely that he had even terrorized this beaver's grandparents. "Perhaps," he thought wryly. "Stories of the great blue terror have been passed down through the years." It amused him to think so, anyway.

He was going to make a meal of the portly little fellow that now sniffed at the air. Chubby little beavers were good eating in the winter and an old man such as himself needed all the fat he could get his paws on. While he would never admit it out loud, the cold hurt him a great deal. It seemed to knife straight through his fur, sink through all his layers and settle in his bones the instant he ventured outside his den. The older he go the more he hated winter. Pretty soon he would have to start eating a big meal in the fall and sleeping through the damn thing.

With a speed that belied his years Valentine sprang forward into the water. He paid little mind to the cold even though it nearly stole his breath away and instead kept his sights fixed firmly on the little brown head. The beaver was fast - it managed to duck below the surface and whip around into the tunnel - but not fast enough. Valentine felt its rough tail slap down on his tongue, but instead of recoiling from the blow that threatened to pop his jaw he slammed it shut.

With the beaver caught Valentine then heaved himself backwards out of the water. He backed up onto the bank, the beaver writhing and protesting all the while. After a brief struggle as he tried to sort out the best way to kill it without giving it a chance to bite him, Valentine managed to seize it by the back of the neck. A single crushing blow followed by a twist at the base of the skull was all it took to kill it. Satisfied, the old king dropped his prize and stood panting and shivering as he tried to catch his breath.

He could have used a moment to recover from the chill of the water, but it was not meant to be. Movement out of the corner of his eye alerted him to the presence of a stalker. Recognizing the shape, Valentine turned with a growl. God, he hated coyotes. They were good-for-nothing varmints in his opinion. "Beat it you little bastard or I will eat you too." He meant it to. Valentine found the idea of eating coyote disgusting, but he would do it out of spite in a heartbeat.

Well, hell. Two more coyotes broke free of the underbrush and to keep from being pinned by the water's edge Valentine was forced to charge at the group and scatter them. He retreated immediately and stood guard over his kill with his hackles and tail raised. While the coyotes had retreated out of sight Valentine was sure they were simply regrouping. They did not approach that boldly without a reason and their reason could not be any clearer. They wanted his kill.

Not one to run from a fight even if he was outnumbered, Valentine held his ground. Let them come back. He had been killing coyotes for years and he would continue to do so until his dying day.

A sudden explosion of sound and movement drew his attention to the side as two of the coyotes came howling out of the underbrush. Their teeth were bared and their hackles were raised as they charged at him and Valentine could only assume they meant to do battle. He dropped into a crouch and stiffened, his teeth bared in a fierce grimace that promised injury should they get too close.

A sharp blow to his side caught him completely off guard. The third coyote. He had forgotten it. Dammit.

Because he was completely unprepared for it, Valentine was very nearly knocked over. He barely managed to get his paws under him before all of the coyotes pounced. The group dissolved into a confusing tangle of biting, kicking and yelping. It was hard to tell where one coyote ended and another began, and it was only slightly easier to identify Valentine in the mix by his slate fur. Every once in a while one of the brawlers would scream as someone got a particularly bad bite in.

With a howl one of the coyotes went careening away with blood pouring from a massive hole in its face. Another was soon knocked to the ground and pinned as Valentine locked jaws with the third. He stared down the third; a steady growl vibrating their locked jaws. For several seconds they were at a standstill but finally the coyote's resolve began to waver as Valentine's stronger jaws took their toll. It began to whine, the sound nearly drowned out by the screaming of the first coyote and the angry wails of the pinned second one. Finally it could take no more and released its grip. Valentine let go too and in an instant the coyote was off like a shot. He released the second coyote and gave it one final bite as it ran from him.

The old king stood still for several minutes as silence fell on the river again. When at last he accepted that they coyotes were gone he sank to his knees on the cold ground. If he had been tired before he was utterly exhausted now. Wounds littered his body, but the worst (and most readily seen by him) was a large, crescent shaped gash across the bridge of his nose. That one was going to leave one hell of a scar.

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