Post by bits on May 11, 2019 18:12:20 GMT
When one lived in a clan, there was time to relax. If someone didn't hunt, someone else would. There was support - when someone fell ill, there was someone else to help. The elderly had a place to live out the rest of their days. Mothers could be fed while their kits were young, there were those to defend others in cases of danger. Camps were safe for the most part. Tick didn't know any of this though.
Tick was a product of survival. There was no room for illness or mistakes - if you could not take care of yourself, you would die. That was how the world worked (or at the very least, the world in which Tick lived). There were things that differed greatly for the young loner. They had fewer social skills, and if they spoke at all, it was with a voice that was hoarse in a way generally reserved for the ill. But they were sharp - sharper than most their age. They knew how to watch for incoming clouds and storms, they knew how to find shelter in the roots of a tree or a dugout hole. They knew which bugs tried to fight back when you ate them. They knew what hurt and what was safe (with a few exceptions, but rarely did they try new things)..
Recently though, there was a nifty trick that had made scavenging a lot easier for the scraggly little creature. Tick was, after all, hardly recognizable - more feral than not, these days. But they were no longer as rail thin as they once had been (though their coat and ribs gave away their state of affairs). You see, Tick was used to having scraps left over from crows, picked clean by the time they got here, save for when they got lucky. But they learned - as they were wont to do. The crows would begin to move towards the carrion - circling or perching nearby before the rest of the flock descended. If Tick could find crows, Tick could find food. And that's what they were doing now.
They'd followed a crow, to a border. Tick was... vaguely aware of borders. They were heavy scents, laid over one another. That was worrying enough for the malnourished creature to avoid them in general. But there was a half of a marmot being picked at by a couple of crows just outside the border. Tick didn't consider trying to take down one of the crows - they were a similar size to them, and it seemed ill-advised. But the apprentice-aged creature crept forward and started pulling on the marmot. There was a brief bout of squawking and pecking and feathers, but Tick darted back with a decent chunk of the crowfood, separating from the other scavengers and taking refuge just next to the border, crouching in the crook of a small stone.
This was a good food day, evidently.
Tick was a product of survival. There was no room for illness or mistakes - if you could not take care of yourself, you would die. That was how the world worked (or at the very least, the world in which Tick lived). There were things that differed greatly for the young loner. They had fewer social skills, and if they spoke at all, it was with a voice that was hoarse in a way generally reserved for the ill. But they were sharp - sharper than most their age. They knew how to watch for incoming clouds and storms, they knew how to find shelter in the roots of a tree or a dugout hole. They knew which bugs tried to fight back when you ate them. They knew what hurt and what was safe (with a few exceptions, but rarely did they try new things)..
Recently though, there was a nifty trick that had made scavenging a lot easier for the scraggly little creature. Tick was, after all, hardly recognizable - more feral than not, these days. But they were no longer as rail thin as they once had been (though their coat and ribs gave away their state of affairs). You see, Tick was used to having scraps left over from crows, picked clean by the time they got here, save for when they got lucky. But they learned - as they were wont to do. The crows would begin to move towards the carrion - circling or perching nearby before the rest of the flock descended. If Tick could find crows, Tick could find food. And that's what they were doing now.
They'd followed a crow, to a border. Tick was... vaguely aware of borders. They were heavy scents, laid over one another. That was worrying enough for the malnourished creature to avoid them in general. But there was a half of a marmot being picked at by a couple of crows just outside the border. Tick didn't consider trying to take down one of the crows - they were a similar size to them, and it seemed ill-advised. But the apprentice-aged creature crept forward and started pulling on the marmot. There was a brief bout of squawking and pecking and feathers, but Tick darted back with a decent chunk of the crowfood, separating from the other scavengers and taking refuge just next to the border, crouching in the crook of a small stone.
This was a good food day, evidently.
