46 Spring 512
“But maybe-”
“No.”
“Just a tiny little-”
“NO.”
“How about that-”
“NO!”
Rhy’s demanding bark had the wiry little dog’s already nervous tick blow into an all-out seizer of spazzing muscles. The small silver fish between her forepaws stared at the two dogs with the petrified and glazed bug eyes all dead fish had, and this annoyed her. All she wanted was a quiet corner in which to devour her find in relative peace.
She takes a deep breath and speaks in an controlled voice, digging up deep reserves of reason and compassion.
“Shoo, you little rat.”
---------------
An hour later (after the crafty little bugger nipped away at her patience and she bribed him with a sizable fillet, just to leave her alone) Rhy is crossing the Riverfall land gate. Why? Because fish are small and everyones hungry. So she’s going hunting. Proper hunting. The kind with open spaces and crafty prey. She wont be traveling far beyond Riverfall. Close enough to keep the city in sight, anyway.
With the Sanctuary close by, and not being very far from the main road, she could easily be interrupted by a loud wagon or even someone out for an open walk. But the deep tiredness in her bones had her opt for convenience and safety at the sacrifice of privacy.
The wind is dry and flowing from the sea, so she carves a wide arc to make sure she is downwind before she attempts any sort of tracking. And she takes her time tracing lines to burrows and tracks.
Nearly an thirty chimes later has her barking down the burrow of a weasel. The creatures have a strong odour and are fairly easy to track and run down, except for the fact they are never farther then a leap and a bound from their nests.
Not long after that she has treed a large and rather vicious looking raccoon. It sang and cripped at her from the top of a slender birch at the edge of the Cyphers tree line, while she barked insults from below. She briefly considered laying siege and waiting it out, but these bastards can stay treed for days and she was loath to stay out after dark.
Her third escapee was another weasel. She was close, but it dodged her increasingly frustrated attempts to bag it and disappeared down a hole with a terrified chirp. This time Rhy goes as far as to dig the furry dinner out herself, despite the danger of close facial proximity to rabid, cornered rodents. And then she finds out that this, in fact, was not the weasels home. In its panic the critter dived not for its own hole, but that of a large, bloated and very agitated snake.
Ten chimes later, Rhy is calm enough to try hunting again.
It takes another half an hour to have successfully stalked a possible victim. A sizable fowl. Some sort of pheasant, perhaps. She lies belly deep in a patch of long golden grass, and watches this ugly dirt-colored chicken as it digs at the ground with horned feet.
Running, she can do. Hunting is all very natural. But stalking is not a strong suit. The black and gold fur helps with camouflage in a landscape dominated by tall grass, but there really are no places to actually hide in the sea of grass. So hope to god your a good runner. But this bird might be able to fly, so if she could just get a little bit closer...