Survival

Sonje Helsi · 08-11-2012, 11:21 PM

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(For Draugr. Backdated to ~Aug. 5)

Sonje by Sie!

When Sonje was just approaching Halifax, she passed the wide expanse that made up the Greater Halifax beyond the city. She rode Jagga slowly along the rural roads, looking out for something to eat. She was presently weaponless, but her slender fingers led to ripping claws and her young teeth were incredibly strong—hunger made her a deadly creature. She pulled on Jagga's halter, urging her to stop, as she slid down and slipped among the the wild grain growing behind a tall red barn. She'd spotted wild pig, but they'd yet to see her. Jagga stayed behind on instinct, wary of her master's voracious attitude, those hungry eyes of a lone wolf.

Creeping through the tall, tan stalks, she passed a sect of charred wood that had once stood a fence. She chose a solid sliver that fit nicely in her hand and didn't bend easy when she applied pressure. She gripped it and crawled forward on three of her four legs, holding it poised to drive fatally into her prey. She sat back on her haunches at the edge of cover between the grass and the barn—about fifty yards away—and she spied with her blanched eyes a small group of sows with their teenagers and young piglets. Sonje's mouth slavered in agreeance with the uncomfortable gurgle of her hungry stomach, and she slunk carefully around, as they foraged and rooted on that late afternoon sun in a wild onion patch.

When she was just close enough, she sprang, making wild, yipping barks to confuse them as they scattered. One of the piglets got in her way, and she kicked it fatally, but it wasn't her intended target. She had to kill one of the sows. Kill the kids, and the mothers might be vengeful. Kill one of the mothers, and the remaining sounder would be fearful. She snarled, coming down agilely upon the spine of her sable-backed opponent, and she drove the stake immediately into the quick-corpse's throat. With a mad squeal and feral thrash, Sonje only dismounted to watch her quarry die, listening to the frightened squeals beyond her as the rest of the sounder regrouped and fled the area (for days), but she bloodied that onion patch, making sure her prey was dead with that wooden stick.

She didn't mutilate it, but her roughness garnered more than several splinters in her light fingers and palm. The wolfdog stood to admire her work and barked loudly for her victory. She then bird-whistled, and smiled in contentment as she could hear Jagga's slow plodding coming steadily nearer from down the grain slope. Sonje then started to drag the carcass, nearly two-thirds of her own weight, towards the barn where she could dismantle it and eat in private. Some fifteen yards away, a dying piglet struggle-crawled (unnoticed by Sonje) towards the field, hopeful, not knowing his irreversible fate of his very insides.

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