DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Deimos nodded once, responding to Oliver’s directions. Slow and stealthy, slinking along the grass, at one with the midnight shrouds and the earth; breathing held tight in his chest, in his lungs, as he ambled closer and closer on a wide berth. He took the long way around, a modified approach, eyes never quite leaving the flock, paws lightly touching upon soil and loam, careful not to make any significant sounds. Once he managed to slither and slide amongst the eaves, he waited for Oliver’s next decision.
The other cat seemed to have taken his advice, and Deimos could barely hear him as he maneuvered and motioned, proceeding towards his intended prey. Narrowed eyes watched, waited, ears the only thing twisting and turning, striving to pick up on indicated sounds.
Then Oliver made his move.
He must’ve learned from his previous hunting days, where seemingly nothing had gone his way, because the injured turkey didn’t have a chance. There was an undignified squawk, launching to the side, plumage raised and extended, but Oliver’s grip remained.
The rest of the birds attempted to flee as Deimos concocted his own plan – going for the elderly, slower turkey in the back as they attempted to race through the underbrush. He stalked, presided from his angled space, and then pounced – a launching of bunched, bundled, coiled muscles and limbs, paws extended, claws aiming to dig, to scald, to maul, until they scorched upon feathers, and the turkey fell in his grasp, trying to put up a fight. His jaws went instinctively around the bird’s neck, ivories and enamel pressing down, down, down along windpipes, suffocating, waiting for the body to slow, to dwindle, to cease. You all right? he called through to Oliver – presuming the injured fowl’s death knells were an eventual thing too.
The other cat seemed to have taken his advice, and Deimos could barely hear him as he maneuvered and motioned, proceeding towards his intended prey. Narrowed eyes watched, waited, ears the only thing twisting and turning, striving to pick up on indicated sounds.
Then Oliver made his move.
He must’ve learned from his previous hunting days, where seemingly nothing had gone his way, because the injured turkey didn’t have a chance. There was an undignified squawk, launching to the side, plumage raised and extended, but Oliver’s grip remained.
The rest of the birds attempted to flee as Deimos concocted his own plan – going for the elderly, slower turkey in the back as they attempted to race through the underbrush. He stalked, presided from his angled space, and then pounced – a launching of bunched, bundled, coiled muscles and limbs, paws extended, claws aiming to dig, to scald, to maul, until they scorched upon feathers, and the turkey fell in his grasp, trying to put up a fight. His jaws went instinctively around the bird’s neck, ivories and enamel pressing down, down, down along windpipes, suffocating, waiting for the body to slow, to dwindle, to cease. You all right? he called through to Oliver – presuming the injured fowl’s death knells were an eventual thing too.
still standing
not because you can
but because you have to
