And so began a long list of declines from the locals of Forochel on his friend’s whereabouts. Kauppa-Kohta was a dead end, Pynti-Peldot was a dead end, and Stitches was certain that the next stop would be the same. The dark accompaniment over his shoulder warned him time and time again that Forochel would yield no answers, but Stitches persisted, whether it is to be thorough or just to spite his new dislike for the cloaked figure, it is unclear. As the night drew upon Stitches and Bread, the deathly chill was a certainty. Stitches had wandered a bit off the road behind a conveniently large rock to set up his camp for the night, just into the treeline of Forochel’s vast and mostly barren wilderness. He had no idea where exactly he was, but he knew where the road was, and that was enough. The fire he created is smokeless and well hidden next to the rock.
Stitches sits on his pack by the fire, poking at the logs with a rod, and trying his best to keep his eyes open. Perhaps sleep being unkind to him had contributed to him seeing these extra traveling group members, like the one that appears to him when at a time he shoots his eyes open from a small doze off. The ghastly figure of his friend Dru sits atop a mound of snow and ice neatly, gazing at him. She speaks quietly to him, “Stitches, what are you doing here?”
Stitches doesn’t answer at first, She’s not really her, and the cloaked one isn’t really what he is either. Neither of them are real and they should go away. He wishes they would go away, then maybe this would all be easier. Then again…
“I have to find you.” Stitches says curtly.
Dru shakes her head, as he imagined she would, which is likely why she does as such. Her tone turns stern, as if reprimanding him, “You’re not taking care of yourself, and you’re subjecting yourself to unnecessary hardships. You need to go home, you need to stop.”
Stitches stands up, giving himself a little more energy from the movement, “I can’t. I promised I would find you, and I won’t break another one.”
Before the apparition of Dru can respond to this, the whisper of the wind carries a wayward animal whimper into his campsite from between the trees. Stitches’ head had whirled around to look into the trees, and when he turned back, the specter had vanished from his camp. Stitches huffs, reaching to his left and grabbing his bow and a few arrows just before darting into the forest. He made his way through the trees, keeping himself quiet but quick in the snow, listening carefully, picking up each pathetic cry this poor, likely injured animal made. Closer he drew to the pitiful squeaks until his feet draw him upon the disheartening scene. A vixen of silver fur lay on its side, its coat streaked with red, limp and void of any breath. Next to the corpse, cuddled up to it’s stomach desperately lies a kit, howling and crying out for it’s dead mother.
It’s face, snout, and top of its head is silver, while the far sides of its face and it’s cheeks are red, and all along it’s back as well remains the ginger. Its haunches and upper portions of it’s front legs are silver, like its face, while the lower halves of all four legs are black like the underbelly. It’s tail is a speckled mix of all three colors save the signature white tip. The kit yowls and screams into the night, not even stopping when Stitches kneels down before it to examine the carcass of the mother. She must’ve been mauled by something, but not here. She’s not been eaten, and signs of a blood trail leading further into the forest dots the snow. Stitches glances around, but sees no signs of a burrow. His conclusion is that she ran with her kit away from whatever gave her the wounds and died here, unable to continue. Stitches reaches out to the kit, which at first recoils from his hand and paws at its mother’s stomach as if to beg her to save him. Stitches hushes the baby animal, “Shhh. Quiet now. There’s no need to be afraid.” He says, holding his hand out to it.
After a few minutes the kit warms up to the idea by sniffing at Stitches’ fingers. It relaxes when Stitches holds himself there for a good long while, and slowly but surely allows him to brush two fingers over its head. “There we are.” Stitches says quietly, and talks to it in a soothing voice over the snowy wind, “You must be getting hungry...and tired, hm? Why don’t you let me take care of you.”
The fox kit seems hesitant, but Stitches remains determined. He leans his face down close to the kit, who does nothing at first. Then after a few more minutes of biting cold, the kit reaches its paw sadly forward and puts it on Stitches’ nose. Stitches nods and reaches to pick the kit up, cradling it in one hand close to his chest. He leans down further and slings the dead mother vixen over his opposite shoulder, and begins to retrace his steps back towards his camp, looking down at the kit, “Now...what to call you, hm?”
