sunchaser

He would travel north, veering to the west and past the Thundering Grasslands. Following the trickle of water south, Tate found himself in the location the locals would call Sundance Grove. It was quiet here, with the subtle chirping of birds and early morning insects buzzing around. He walked, glancing this way and that. Despite it being bright outside of this place, the grove was a hidden gem of dim lighting that set a mood. What mood, he wasn't sure.

It was still and soft. Barely any noise. When he walked, his own was concealed and absorbed by the grassy terrain. It was quite mossy here. He felt it was nice. A subtle breeze blew through the canopies, making it a bit humid for the autumn weather but also not uncomfortable. He wouldn't be able to hear someone approach, but he would be able to see them. Tate was the only one on the move; the rest of the animals had gone to the ground when he approached.

Perhaps they sensed he was a hunter or was just cautious of any new face. He sniffed, following the scent of squirrel to the base of a tree. Grey eyes looked up, seeing a quiver of movement. It wasn't cornered, as the red squirrel burst from the trees and jumped onto a branch in another. Tate huffed, half amused and half annoyed. He was sort of hungry.

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The closer to the sea his route wound, the more discomfort the tropical cat felt. He had been stalking after an individual that looked small enough to tackle on his own, in part out of sheer curiosity. There were many in the lands beyond his native garden, dogfolk who roamed in great swaths or, in this case, entirely alone.

How silly of this one to not seek the protection of a pack. It left things open for Cuchumaquic, who held back and stayed a patient distance for many miles.

But opportunity had a habit of turning, and it turned out not to be the wolfthing that would succumb that morning. Rather, a feral hog that browsed with only one other was the target. With dapple coat, the cat stalked low and slow, built for ambush and not for the chase. The wolfthing was not far, and was certainly within earshot when high-pitched squealing erupted from the hog. Though Cuchumaquic went for the back of the skull, the animal slipped from his grasp. His claws had raked harsh, terrible wounds on its back and sides, and bloody holes rested on the beast's head.

It ran directly toward where the wolfthing was situated. Cuchumaquic's tail twitched. His nose flared.

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The boar was a welcomed distraction, but the jaguar was not. He felt himself bristle on instinct near the presence of a predator. Tate didn't like the feeling of being viewed as prey, and that's what his body felt like. Alert. Scared. He almost even missed the boar, snapping dangerously in the air before lunging again. He grabbed onto the creature's back as it passed, using his weight to force it to the earth.

Tate snapped again, the back of the meaty neck filling quickly with blood. And though he was hungry; he didn't touch the food. Other species could be sensitive. The jaguar could easily just attack the wolf for the sake of protecting 'his' prey — even if Tate was the one who killed it. He held on as the boar kicked and shuddered, and then it fell to the earth. Tate scrambled away from it as quickly as possible, not wishing to be close to the large feline.

With the boar dead, he licked his lips free of blood. A few choice specks got on his front too. Damn. Now he looked like some wild heathen. Moving further, backing away, he let the feline feast. Tate kept his eyes locked on the movements it made. Just in case it was going to see him as food. The boar was enough for now, surely.

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