Motes played.
Today, she played prey. Today, she was a mouse to some fox, some owl, some cunning predator. She crept and crawled at first, prowling through the brush and between the trunks of trees. She stuck to where the pine needles made a thick carpet on the floor of this forest or, failing that, the hard domes of granite that interrupted it. Anything she could do to stay away from the scree or gravel, the occasional stands of deciduous trees with their noisier fallen leaves, the stands of blackberry canes that she knew would tug at her clothes and fur, leaving a wake of whimpers and vines whipping backward.
Today, she sought out all of the best ways to move. There were times when all fours was called for — when she climbed a slope, perhaps, or when she needed to force herself through some keyhole in the brush, or when she needed to be quiet. Those digger claws of hers helped at times and hindered others, and if the ones on her toes would clack against rock, she would crawl on her knuckles and knees.
Today, she listened hard, head constantly turning to build a better view of the sonic landscape of the world around her. She hunted for the rustle of branches, of footsteps, of breath. Today, her eyes were keen, her gaze sharp, flitting about to hunt for the slightest movement or out-of-place shadow.
And then there it was: the shadow. The one she knew had been tracking her. The one she had felt but not seen. The one whose footsteps were too quiet to be heard and yet which nonetheless trod the ground behind her.
Instinct took over, and Motes ran.
She ran straight forward, at first, for there was a clearing ahead of her and relatively little brush between it and her and although there was a tree smack in the middle of her path, there was space enough to either side of it to slip by without having to turn too sharply, without having to slow her headlong dash.
She ran straight forward and then, just before she actually reached the clearing, juked suddenly to the right.
It had to be a trap. It had to be a trap. She knew her pursuer. She knew it well. She knew they would have planned for this vision of a clearing. She knew — and she kicked herself for knowing too late — that she had been subtly guided this way, toward this clearing, toward this meadow of deceptively open space, of shin-high yellow-green grass and bobbing columbines.
Behind her, a growl, sharp and clear in the overbright air, confirmed her guess.
Her hunter was quick. Motes was not: she had stubby legs; she was soft; she was chubby.
Her hunter was nimble. Motes was not: it was hard to maintain a tight turning radius with all of the above working against her.
Her hunter was smart, but then, so was she. That was her strength. That was how she would win. That was how she would survive.
Rebounding off a tree and wincing at a sudden spike of pain in her shoulder, she made a hard turn to the right once more and darted toward her hunter rather than away, pressing the attack — or at least aiming for surprise — rather than simply running and running.
There, a flash of fur amid the trees. A flash of fur and sudden, wild laughter.
She picked up the speed into an all out sprint. Her pursuer darted off at sharp angle and, as it did so, a brick wall spiraled into being before her, only a few feet on a side, and yet directly in her path, a few paces away. She had just enough time to fork mid-stride and let the new instance continue in her sprint while the old crashed into the wall with a thud, then quit.
“Attaaaaack!” she hollered.
“Oh! Oh oh oh!” came a voice from out the trees and her prey skidded to a halt, quickly reversing direction and racing toward her instead.
A game of chicken, then! she thought, grinning fiercely.
The two ran directly at each other, weaving slightly to make their way around the occasional tree.
It was Motes who caved first, ducking down onto paws and knees at the last second before the critter, who deftly leapfrogged over her with a dopplered giggle.
“Gotcha!” ey cried, scampering off to the forest.
Motes galloped after her, giggling.
A few more rounds of leapfrog and both Motes and Warmth collapsed in the clearing in the woods, panting and laughing. They shoved at each other for a few seconds, rolling about in the grass and wildflowers before sprawling out on their backs, looking up into the cloud-dotted sky.
“You know,” Warmth said reaching over to poke Motes in the belly. “If you were not such a fatty, you could probably outrun me!”
“But I like being a fatty!” Motes countered. “If you were not such a string bean, you…you would…uh....”
“Uh huh?” the other skunk prompted, grinning. “What would I do, my dear? Pray tell!”
Motes laughed and tore up a pawful of grass, tossing it ineffectually at her cocladist, who merely returned the gesture.
Which Offers Heat And Warmth In Fire was a skunk like her, small like her, but had wound up wiry and lithe, perpetually untameable fur stained here and there with green or yellow as if ey had been caught rolling in the grass and dandelions and run off before bothering to wash. It was her friend of friends, a superlative acquaintance that had led to a bond unbreakable.
They elbow-crawled over to drape unceremoniously over Motes’s front, sighing now that it had caught eir breath. “You are a nerd,” they said. “But I guess I like you all the same.”
“Pff, call me a nerd,” Motes scoffed, petting Warmth’s fur up backwards to muss it all the more. “At least I am a cute nerd!”
“You are that,” the other skunk admitted. “So am I, mind. Probably cuter than you.”
“Mmhm mmhm mmhm.” She grinned over at Warmth. “What have you been working on, anyway?”