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Taming || Kinfa
Attack Stat || 50 + 7 = 57
Speed Stat || 42 + 5 = 47
Intelligence || 18
Roll 1 Needed || 10-100
Roll 2 Needed || 30-100
Rolled || 32, 79
Outcome || Success =D
Xilarn festered in quiet irritation while he worked on sheering the already-dead adult kinfa's feathers from its body. If its toddling infant that had emerged only after he'd killed her understood anything that was going on, it certainly didn't show it. It regarded him fearlessly, unafraid of the unfamiliar two-legger who had encroached upon its den and rendered its mother silent and still.
The baby was anything but.
It 'chirrrrrup!'ed in high, demanding notes. It ruffled its wings and pranced in a short semi-circle around its fallen guardian, then back to where Xilarn sat, now cutting flesh into strips as he prepared it to be transported. It hopped into the pile of feathers that Xil created, and when he was still long enough, it bounced onto his leg and pecked at his clothing, more curious than harmful. He swatted it away with a stiff grunt.
"She won't wake," he informed the creature gruffly. It cocked its head. "And if I'd known you were there, I would've been more selective with my prey. You ought to have spoken up sooner. It's your fault that you're in this mess, really." It didn't seem overly troubled, just continued hopping from place to place, jabbing its beak into things and peeping loudly.
To Xilarn, it sounded like it wanted an answer.
With a shake of his head, he wrapped the still-wet pieces of meat he'd obtained in a dry, clean towel, and deposited them in a large sack for transport back to camp. he gave the mother a nudge with his boot, encouraging the razed, open flesh to the underside of it so it wouldn't stink and rot as horribly-
The first chick got an answer in the same moment. Xilarn might've cursed, but the sound was quickly drowned out by the more jubilant cawing of his chick- the chick, he amended quickly. Although, admittedly, the sound the first kinfa got in response was weaker, strained, small, buried. Xilarn had to root beneath the too-large and too-heavy mother to find it. But he knew immediately once he had. It was softer than its adult counterpart, and he pulled it free of its confinement gingerly.
He almost wished he hadn't. It was clearly mangled, smaller than its sibling and broken to the point where too many of its hollowed bones were surely beyond repair.
Xilarn came to the unfortunate conclusion that that was probably his fault. He'd shot the mother from the air. She'd fallen, crushed one of her babies, and he'd let her thrash about over it. The thing was pitiful in his grasp, now, and it was probably more merciful to leave it for scavenging predators than to try and do anything to prolong its life. But Xilarn didn't consider himself a merciful man, and if he tried and failed, than at least he'd tried.
He stripped his shirt, and bundled the injured creature in it, collected his bag of meat, ushered the larger of the siblings onto his shoulders, and set off toward camp.
What in the gods' names would Damissan think when he saw?
((WC: 514))
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