chomp

Iscariot · 05-04-2024, 07:16 PM

It's too fucking cold in the north. Way too fucking cold. Iscariot doesn't really know why they'd picked somewhere so inhospitable, but she knows better than to question it, too. Leaving the warm dens, warm beds, it's only going to get harder as the season grows colder and more intense. Best to make the most of it while she has the chance, right? Fuck it. Fuck it. Doesn't help her mood, the foul nature that's always been there. The foul nature that she doesn't bother beating back. Those are allegations that Iscariot has no plans to beat, frankly. She will be foul and she will be salty, at least for now. At least until she has a reason not to be.

The cold is well and truly enough of a reason for her to be in poor spirits, for her to be in a black mood. Frosty ground crunching beneath her paws as she makes her way across the sparsely populated landscape. Filled with pine trees that reach their bony fingers skyward, trying to take hold of the cold sunshine that filters down during the cold north winters. Iscariot's gaze is harsh, her nose held low to the ground. Taking in what she can, curious, wild.

With hunger gnawing at her insides, Riot figures breakfast is probably for the best. Intense gaze scanning the world around her, looking for any sign that she wasn't alone out here. While nothing outward strikes her, Iscariot knows that looks are well and truly deceiving. Especially this time of year. Holding her breath, listening really closely... ah. There we go. The distant ruffle of feathers catches her ears, and a friendly shift in the breeze supports her theory. No, Iscariot isn't alone. She knows better. Well and truly better. Hackles up in a fine ridge down her spine, the girl picks up a stiff trot.

Shoulders rolling forward as her jog breaks into a lope, three easy beats that carry her with great purpose across the ground. There's brush here, around the edges of the sparse pines. It's in the brushy areas that Iscariot is fairly certain the right things will come to play. Ears twitching, gaze intent. Pausing once more, a she comes to the brush piles and sparse, scrubby vegatation. Not enough to sustain larger prey, the herds have long since departed. No, she's been left with something small and tasty, and probably more her speed, if Iscariot is going it alone. Fuck it, the girl knows her limits.

Birds. She can hunt birds. There's a keen ear to the ground, trying to sort out exactly where the bastards are hiding out. It's a good exercise for her brain. Nose. Ears. Working them as hard and as best she can, in the moment. Set to the ground like it's her job... because it is. Careful and precise, working in time with the world around her. Trying not to get too frustrated with the cold northern breeze kicking up, disturbing her scent trail. Fuck.

Prairie chicken scent still in her nose, Iscariot finds herself frustrated. It's that frustration that sends the usually-composed hunter throwing herself toward a bush, at the undergrowth, with snapping jaws and a snarl deep in her chest. In her throat. It's vicious and vile, and frankly, she's surprised when she comes away with a feathered beast clutched in her sharp jaws. Oh. Oh? No, she's caught something after all, and it's exactly what she wants. The grouse do tend to roost in the brush during the winter, she should have just started this way all along. No time for that now, Iscariot is holding onto the frantic bird with all the might of a girl who can't be assed losing her breakfast.

It attempts to take flight, boxing and bashing Riot about the ears with its wings. Fucker. With a snarl, Iscariot's grip tightens. While she didn't mean to take the thing by the wings, it's the easiest way she can really handle it. A clawed foot flails somewhere near her head, as the bird desperately tries to defend itself. Talon catching against Riot's cheek, just a scratch but it hurts. With another savage growl, Riot bashes the flailing bird against the ground, using the wing as leverage.

Pretty? This hunt? No, but when was winter hunting ever? Not like anyone was watching. Not like anyone needed to watch, between the distress calls of the bird and the snarls of the hunter. They're locked in combat, and it's clear that her quarry wasn't getting away this time. With one more chomp, Iscarot finally gets a grip on the bird's head. With a sickening crunch, the bird stills in her mouth. Panting, the woman sets the carcass on the ground for a moment. Looking over her shoulder in each direction to make sure she hasn't attracted any more attention, and determining the scene safe before she digs in.

Tastes like chicken.

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Iscariot