(TW for Death) The moon was high that night, painting the forests of a far-away land in shades of silver and shadow. Silent, it was. The soft chirruping of crickets, the occasional call of an owl or the scuffle of some other night-faring creature rustling the undergrowth was the glade’s tranquil symphony. But the quiet was seldom to last, as the air was broken by two pairs of cackles, the sound reverberating off the treetops, frightening away a flock of poor sleeping birds in its wake. “Oh how thrilling!” A conniving smooth purr rang out, soft pawsteps accompanying the sound. “How absolutely hilarious! The look on that poor creature’s face after I turned their ears into yarn? How priceless!” She guffawed, gleeful laughter ringing out once more. “Huzzah! Huzzah!” A second voice cawed, voice gravelly paired with the melody of the ruffle of feathers and the shuffle of wings. “A terrible trick, my dearest minx! T’was a clever charm, that cunning jinx!” What a dastardly pair, the forest knew them well. For just around the bend, slipping through the dark of night like specters of mischief, were the two witches. Purr-kin Spice, was the first. A serval who was surely the worst. A sandy spotted pelt veiled by a dark cloak, face masked with a feathery flair and a small pointed hat, the chime of her chain jewelry was a sound no creature who happened to meet the mistress of misfortune could ever forget. And of course, who was Purr-kin without her beloved? The second witch, Caw-dy Corn, a raven of mysteries, with a shawl of orange and yellows, golden beads tinkering in time of Purr-kin’s steps as they rode upon her back, the iridescence of her ivory feathers gleaming like the shell of dark pearls under the moon, expression hidden by the beaked mask upon their face, but one must imagine it was as dastardly as their lover’s. Suddenly, and it was indeed quite abruptly, Purr-kin Spice paused sharply in her tracks, nearly sending the poor corvid rumbling off her back, ears pricking straight up. Caw-dy Corn gave a curious tilt of her head, curious as to what has their companion in such a state. “..Blood.” The serval whispered, face flat before a gleeful grin crept across her maw. “To the source, we shall find! Feast feast! There is kill to be dined!” And off they jaunted into the night, through the forest thickets with a chorus of thumping paws and flapping wings. The serval’s keen nose brought the pair right to the sight… …And both froze upon what they had found. “...Oh.” Was all Caw-dy managed, for once the teller’s tongue untwisted by the sight. “...Oh.” Purr-kin echoed, the mischievous mirth swept out of their voice like fog in the wind. For lying there within the forest clearing was not the carrion or vulture’s catch as the pair had so hoped. No, for there lying still in the grass, was a little fox pup. Black fur, dusted with hues of orange, as cold and still as an eerie night. Dead, no doubt. “...An unfortunate sight. An unfortunate site.” Caw-dy murmured, hopping down off of Purr-kin’s back and slowly towards the body of the fox pup. “They’re so… Little.” An unfamiliar twinge was in the serval’s throat. What was it? Melancholy? Sadness? Pensiveness? Words unfamiliar to the feline that was all tricks and treats. After a moment of hesitance, Purr-kin followed the raven forward, her gaze cast downwards towards the poor little creature. Perhaps because this was not the fun and games the witches were used to, a strange stillness fell over the both of them. A silence that was almost uncanny from the two that often howled into the night. Silence, that’s all there was. For several long moments that could have been mistaken for hours, till Purr-kin’s sight was torn from the lifeless pup and to their mate, something both soft and serious in her gaze. A silent message in a look. A look that Caw-dy did not return, for the corvid’s head did not turn towards the other witch, but the message was still received. Slowly, Caw-dy’s gold-tipped talons reached upwards, pulling down her multicolored shawl with the soft tinker of beads, and they undid the clasp of the mask upon their face, which fell to the earth with a soft thud. The corvid’s face, a scarred and gruesome sight, with eyes glassy and unseeing, turned towards the fox pup, stepping closer in a stride so smooth it was almost phantomlike. In her black wings Caw-dy Corn did sweep the young pup, holding them like a mother cradling a child. A soft hum came from the corvid’s beak, a tune that was almost mournful. A lament. A requiem. “For then was now, and now was then.. May what has been lost be found again.” Caw-dy whispered, and from their beak they gently exhaled a puff of blue smoke that shimmered like cool, deep waters. The smoke settled over the pup’s face, the shimmer dimming and then fading. A beat. Then two. Until- . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . A cough came from the little one, a ragged inhale taken as life was breathed back into their impossibly frail frame. Purr-kin exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding, closing the distance between her mate and the child in long, quick steps. Still silent, as truly, what was there to say? The two sat there together, Purr-kin’s gaze locked unmoving on the pup as they began to yip and wail, a break in the still that had overtaken the witches. “...They yap a lot for such a little thing.” Purr-kin mused, easing the tension with the faintest of chuckles. “A lighted spark sets a flame. Perhaps then, that is their name.” Caw-dy hummed in return, their mate blinking in surprise. “Yap? No.. That’s far too boring.” Purr-kin tutted, shaking her head. “...What about Yap-ple? Yap-ple Cider, maybe? They look like a Yap-ple Cider to me.” The corvid let out an amused sound, a raspy reverberation in their throat. “Terrible things do come in threes, Yap-ple Cider then, they shall be.” The decision wasn’t one that was spoken aloud, but it didn’t have to be. Already the two witches knew that their duo was no more. A trio, for as Caw-dy said, terrible things do come in threes. “..They look cold.” Purr-kin fretted, brow furrowed under her mask. “Here-” From a stir of magic in her paws, she conjured up a soft white sheet that with the help of the corvid, the serval tied into a sling around her neck, quelling the cries of the pup as they snuggled into the witch’s warmth. “What a little devil they’re going to grow up to be. Just like their mama and dama.” Purr-kin purred. “An unexpected development, but hey, who said that the tricksters couldn’t be treated?” Two sets of laughs rose once more, the edges of their soft cackles softened ever-so faintly as Caw-dy Corn perched herself upon their lover’s back once more, and the three of them made their way off into the night, continuing upon their journey of spooks and schemes. But where, you may ask, were they off to next? Well, that was another tale to be told, so for now? This one can be closed. The end.
