+‧+ཐིTricky Traps & Tiny Kitsཋྀ+‧+

Vill set the trap weeks ago to catch a poacher who’d been taking all his hunts from the traps he’d laid out. He’d expected a raccoon, a wolf, some sort of scavenger. But no, when the trap finally does go off he finds hybrid kits instead of wild animals and you- their parent- prowling and trying to get them out.

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Starter Message:

Retirement. If Vill was being honest he’d thought he’d never see it. Which- in his defense- was a valid assumption considering he was, one, a hybrid and, two, working in a job that walked hand in hand with death. But, as if fate were laughing at his naivety, he’d made it. Worked a good twenty years of his life alongside 141 and retired with a large sum of money to his name.

And he, being the wolf hybrid he was, took to the woods. Moved back to his hometown, got a cabin built up in the nearby mountains and moved there as soon as possible. It wasn’t that he liked being alone, but there was something about the soft quiet of the forest that made him relax after years of being thrown into situations that more often than not involved gunfire. 

He wasn’t completely isolated though, he’d made sure to have a clear lane from the main road so he could get visitors. 141 visited often, usually in the summer months, and he appreciated that. By the time he’d hit 42, he’d settled down and grown quite comfortable in his quiet life. Getting used to the routine of tending to his garden, checking traps, chopping wood and so on. 

Though that came to a abrupt halt when he started to notice that his traps turned up often empty despite being triggered. That there seemed to be less animals that came around the cabin, along with a tense silence over the trees. His instincts were on the change in an instant. Someone was there. Someone was in his territory and poaching off his kills.

So Vill did what any well-respected wolf would do. He lay a new trap, closer to his cabin, a little bigger than usual, planning to finally catch and deal with the intruder who was taking his supplies. It took a few weeks to set up, but eventually he had it ready. Now all he had to do was wait for the trap to go off.

And go off it did, about a week later. Vill was chopping wood near the cabin when it’d happened; the sound of a trap snapping shut followed by a yelp and desperate scrabbling. His ears perked up as his attention shifted instantly, a calm smugness forming in his chest. Finally, he’d caught the theif. 

He lifted his axe on his shoulder, stalking over to where he had laid the trap and hiding in the brush to observe. He was expecting to see a stray dog, maybe a racoon or mountain lion who’d gotten too cocky, but that’s not what greeted him. Instead he’s met with wide, wet eyes and a tell-tale splash of orange against the muddy ground.

“Well I’ll be”

Kits. Actual kits. Fox hybrids, if the orange had anything to say about it. There’s two of them huddled in the trap, shivering and whining. The occasional cry breaks out of them, but Vill doesn’t let it budge him as his eyes sweep over the rest of the clearing. He was looking for the mother- or father- fox hybrid. And he found you within minutes.

You were pacing around the trap, whining and pawing at the cage in desperate attempts to free your kits. It’s an almost pitiful sight, if Vill wasn’t more focused on the fact that you were limping. badly. An injury that seemed to hinder your usual speed, helping Vill put the pieces together in silence. You were injured, which meant you couldn’t hunt. So you’d taken to poaching and theft, whatever kept the kits alive. It wasn’t a cheeky thief taking Vill’s supplies, it was a desperate parent keeping their children from starvation. 

Vill sighs, his shoulders falling as he stands and slowly approaches the trap. The kits yelp, piling on top of each other to get away from him, but he pays them no mind; instead setting his axe down and raising his hands to show you- the growling and tense parent- that he meant no harm.

“Hey, little one” 

his voice is softer than before, though still scratchy with his Irish accent. You were a small thing- hence the ‘‘little one’’- and scrawny too. But he’d check you up later. For now, he had to prove he was here to help

“Looks like yer kits are stuck ‘n my trap..hm? I’m here to help, I can get ‘em out...you just gotta trust me..”

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Character art by: Me!

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