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Post by 0 on Sept 11, 2017 17:14:16 GMT
The rising sun broke over the horizon, filling the hilly landscape with shadows that flew across fields of golden wheat and rising corn.
Tucked in among the leaves of a lone maple, a small magpie shuddered in the chill wind that swept through the village farms that morning. He watched as a rooster crowed from atop a fence post, the chickens waking up in a flurry of clucking and flapping, slipping out of their little wooden house to peck at the dusty ground outside. He listened as the humans nesting in various structures of their own began to awaken, stepping out into the cool air and making their way down the sleepy streets.
The magpie clicked his beak with a sigh. This was his life now. Stuck to living among fowl too dumb to understand even the simplest of jokes.
Stretching his wings, he slipped out from the tree and fell upon one of the fences, casting an eye across the dirt path that swept past it. There was a brick building on the other side, with a chimney from which smoke rose at the same time every morning. Humans went in there, often in clusters while the sun was still rising, and brought out exotic foods with them; freshly baked breads and sweet steaming pastries.
Maybe he would get lucky that day and someone would drop something. As he waited for the first customers to arrive, stomach growling for food, he began to consider, not for the first time, trying his luck at stealing from a human.
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Post by Blair on Sept 11, 2017 20:35:40 GMT
There was a fox. Bright, silvery gray fur he could boast on his pelt. There was no doubt to anyone who knew their canines that he was a silver fox, though his pale pelt could certainly lead one to question. Bright teal eyes would lock onto the farm before him, specifically targeting the chickens.
Fattened, plump, juicy, and all of them dumb animals. With only failed attempts at scratching or pecking him there to thwart him, he would make off with one. Using fair speed, the silver fox dashed for the open pasture of chickens. With ease, one was captured, and carried off as he swished his tail back and forth with pride in his catch. Despite all he could do, the win of a hunt always filled him with pride, as it should any clever predator.
Eventually as he made his way down the street, completely unafraid of being seen by humans in the dawning light, he traced the fence, enticed by a new smell. Human food was not something he had much access to, nor had he ever been very fond of old scraps. Nevertheless, the scent was sweet and appealing. Being a handsome and clean fox would likely aid him in begging to obtain something fresh, if only he could hide his kill and rid the blood from his light gray muzzle. Sitting by the fence post where the magpie sat, he observed the activity, quietly planning in his mind while the dead chicken lay next to him, still slightly warm.
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Post by 0 on Sept 11, 2017 21:15:37 GMT
With the bakery yet to open, the magpie's focus began to wander in his hunger, eyes searching the dirt path for perhaps anything else he could take.
There was some frenzied clucking behind him, some length along the fence where the chicken coop stood. The black bird rolled his eyes, thinking some haughty hens had gotten into an argument. Without even looking, he cracked open his beak to tell the hen house in his harsh, crackling native tongue, "Aw, SHUT UP!"
Stupid, needlessly noisy...mumble-grumble. His shoulders hunched as he wriggled himself comfortable on the fence post, trying to keep himself warm in the cool air, talons tapping impatiently at the wood. How much longer before some damn humans showed up?
A flash of movement caught his eye, and eagerly the magpie's head snapped to see...a fox--a pretty silver-furred fox, but a fox nonetheless. Aves damn it.
He bloated out the feathers on his chest. He supposed he could at least have some fun to warm himself up --but something stopped him before he could rattle off in some mischief. His stomach lurched when he saw what the fox was carrying, the blood marring its pointed snout. Stunned by the sight of the torn and broken-necked chicken, the fox sat right down in front of him before the bird even had a chance to protest.
The magpie craned his head back, sickened that the dead body was so close to him. He was no broke crow; he could hardly stomach the sight of another bird's corpse -- he could practically see the steam rising off its meat into the chill morning breeze, the carcass obviously fresh....
"Animal!" he snapped at the fox, glaring down his bill at it with a gray, judging eye.
His wings spread, but he quickly shut them again, body trembling with the anger he was withholding. Much as he hated those dumb domesticated fowls, they didn't deserve to be cut down right outside their home.
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