Cellen's footfalls in the forest were as silent as the noiseless air as he padded amongst the trees. It seemed as though he had passed through a land of fables. As he had rose above the rivers and climbed higher amongst the jaws of the mountains, Cellen's perspective was beginning to favor the true wildness of the jagged, unpredictable, country. From the view above, the forests and dense woods seemed to stretch on forever. It was a strange, almost enchanted wilderness, that offered the promise of safety, of concealment, and of seemingly endless mystery.
Perhaps it was the fury of the mountains that called to their venturous hearts. Soaring slopes and grave canyons, lonely peaks and beetling precipices rose around them and woke in the Mokai the full wonder and terror of life. But, for some, the thrill of the endless paradise was found amongst its entangling foliage and its seclusive hideaway found within the forests. Regardless of where ones cup of tea lay, the land beyond the walls was an endless, engaging, everyday adventure.
The black Mokai was scenting now, looking for signs of Tia or other small game in the woods. He heard a chattering up ahead. The feral knew exactly what it meant. It was the sound of scavenger birds, and thus the chance of a meal. Such a bond was that of fact and necessity-- one of the few indicators which rarely led to a lack of opportunity.
When packs of Mokai hunted and made their kill, the smell of blood would bring those hooded black wings hastily to join the feast. Equally, when one of their own passed, by the hand of nature or man, the scavenging birds and its other cohorts might find its body, and their cries alerted the Mokai. It brought Cellen into a kind of humility, as he ran towards the sound.
He growled hungrily as he spotted these flying carrion eaters up ahead. A dead Tia stag lay on its side on the edge of the river, its stiffened grey back touching three large rocks. It was a young Tia, a two pointer, and its antlers, as hard as tree bark, curled around like human daggers. Its staring eyes were open, as if it was still seeing out into the world, but its gaze was cold and dead, and on its back stood three feeding ravens, where a wound was already touched by the busy movement of insects. Two had their angry beaks at work in the carcass ad one stood sentinel, with other cawing Corvidae winged their looming shapes toward the prize.
Cellen was in no mood to share with anyone though and, with a snarl, he leapt towards the carcass. In a great flurry of beating wings and indignant cawing, the ravens rose like a plume of smoke and dispersed.
Normally, in the almost endless and seemingly insistent struggle of nature, Cellen's meal would have been interrupted by the pecking birds, as they grew confident again with having a Mokai in their midst, knowing that a scavenging bird was hardly a prize for a Mokai. But these scavengers had fed well already, and there was other morsels in the fall-struck forest to be found.
So Cellen found himself alone with the dead Tia, and sank in his teeth with satisfaction at such an easy gift, pulling at the meat unashamedly. The fear of another creature encroaching upon his meal didn't phase him--if there was another feral who sought to challenge him for what prize he had acquired, then he would oblige to a brawl. The feral fighter held a sense of etiquette and respect for others yet, on the other paw, winter was looming out on the fringes of the island and nature often wielded horrific tactics to test ones strength. Survival wasn't an option, it was required.
For now, Cellen ate peacefully, not with the bloodlust on him, but a measured intent.
Once his hunger had been sated from the delicious tia, he turned to the river and, where the ice at the edge was beginning to freeze, broke through it with his paw, plunging his snout into its void, and slowly drank from its chilled water. Finding contentment, even satisfaction, he laid down. A soft whine emitted from his maw and became a long, delighted yawn. Cellen closed his tired eyes and laid his head upon the decomposing leaf littered earth to rest.
Silently, the feral fighter thought of his family. They bore his blood, but were no longer his family. He had been away for so long. Not just the months where he had ventured alone into the mountains and was later held captive by man, but truly since that terrible night where he had watched them become collared and taken elsewhere. Perhaps even longer, perhaps since his very birth in the den that was encapsulated within the Raupatu mountains. Perhaps Cellen had always been alone. Perhaps we all are. But even in the darkest times, the most hopeless of circumstances, there seemed to always be a beacon of light whose potent strength could disperse darkness with its very presence. There were two pillars of strength which had carried him: Keegan, his previous handler, and Reisx, his lover.
Both feral and human had forged who he was-- they had refortified him and strengthened him mentally and physically. Between the many scenarios and sticky situations that he had found himself in, the feral fighter had taken away valuable insight and teachings, perhaps even a crash course in coming to terms with the distinctions between a life untamed and a life contained.
The cogs of his mind turned, tossing about thoughts and inklings as it wandered. The sky grew dark. Night came again, and still the frigid chill persisted. With the morning the distant, tepid sunlight made the air glow eerily as the freezing fall continued. Cellen was full of question, questions he had yet to excavate and those which still hung in the balance and sought closure.
