Slowly but surely, the kit's haggard shape inched from the undergrowth and out into the moonlight. Most of her pelt was dark, but the splotches of paler fur highlighted the gauntness of her face and the blood which crusted all across her body; it was as if she'd been dipped in it, and Delta shuddered at the thought. He couldn't see any grievous wounds, at least not ones large enough to bleed so much, and despite her nervous crawl she seemed to have use of all her limbs. Well, aside from the two strange masses which hung at her side like tangled kelp. Delta tilted his head at the sight, slowly recognizing the tattered outline of feathers like that of seabirds which skimmed the ocean waves. She had wings, how strange! Could she use them? He was no expert, but it certainly didn't look like she was holding them correctly.
Still, progress was made! She was out of the bush and hesitantly sniffing at the moss he'd collected for her. He nearly jolted when she spoke again, but it was becoming increasingly clear that whatever this was, it was not a trap. The kit could have easily rushed him with fangs bared, or called for alarm and sent hidden creatures pouring out to grab him as soon as he'd left the stream's safety; it was just the two of them.
If Delta didn't help, who would?
It seemed at least, as she parroted him and now pawed at the moss, he'd found some similarity between their languages.
"Y-yes! Yes," Delta affirmed, keeping his voice low in an attempt to keep her from startling. "Drink water. You..." he trailed off, struggling to think of what words she might understand; probably not 'running' or 'dehydrated'. The kit looked dead on her feet, even discounting all the blood that may or may not have been hers.
"You look sick," he decided. Cautiously, he crept closer with his body low and fur flat, fear and pity present in his wide gaze as he paused several pawsteps away from the moss again. He took a steeling breath and stretched forwards as far as he could manage with his stubby front legs, trying to keep himself at a comfortable distance while he cupped the sopping moss with both paws. If there was any chance for her to attack, him leaning forward with the top of his neck exposed would be the most obvious opportunity. Please don't bite down, Delta prayed. Tsillah, don't let her eat me please.
Carefully, he squeezed the moss between his paws and let cold water seep out into its center, lifting both paws slightly to give the sodden moss a sort of bowl-shape for the liquid to pool.
"Like this," he demonstrated. "See? Water." Slowly he stopped pushing and let the water reabsorb, pulling his paws away to let the moss settle back into its natural lump. He scooted backwards again to give the kit space, but this time, he still stayed several feet from the water's edge. She doesn't seem hurt, he thought. He wasn't sure how old she was specifically, but her strange behavior and emaciated form suggested she wasn't surviving well, at least not on her own. Didn't she have a mother? Or a pack, like Dusk-something was?
"You--um, have family? You alone?" he chewed worriedly at his bottom lip. Perhaps he should just start spitting words randomly to see if there were more she recognized? His attention was pulled back to her sorry wings, tattered feathers clumped with blood and debris. He lifted a paw and carefully gestured towards one, though he made no move to get any closer. "Wing? Fly?"
Still, progress was made! She was out of the bush and hesitantly sniffing at the moss he'd collected for her. He nearly jolted when she spoke again, but it was becoming increasingly clear that whatever this was, it was not a trap. The kit could have easily rushed him with fangs bared, or called for alarm and sent hidden creatures pouring out to grab him as soon as he'd left the stream's safety; it was just the two of them.
If Delta didn't help, who would?
It seemed at least, as she parroted him and now pawed at the moss, he'd found some similarity between their languages.
"Y-yes! Yes," Delta affirmed, keeping his voice low in an attempt to keep her from startling. "Drink water. You..." he trailed off, struggling to think of what words she might understand; probably not 'running' or 'dehydrated'. The kit looked dead on her feet, even discounting all the blood that may or may not have been hers.
"You look sick," he decided. Cautiously, he crept closer with his body low and fur flat, fear and pity present in his wide gaze as he paused several pawsteps away from the moss again. He took a steeling breath and stretched forwards as far as he could manage with his stubby front legs, trying to keep himself at a comfortable distance while he cupped the sopping moss with both paws. If there was any chance for her to attack, him leaning forward with the top of his neck exposed would be the most obvious opportunity. Please don't bite down, Delta prayed. Tsillah, don't let her eat me please.
Carefully, he squeezed the moss between his paws and let cold water seep out into its center, lifting both paws slightly to give the sodden moss a sort of bowl-shape for the liquid to pool.
"Like this," he demonstrated. "See? Water." Slowly he stopped pushing and let the water reabsorb, pulling his paws away to let the moss settle back into its natural lump. He scooted backwards again to give the kit space, but this time, he still stayed several feet from the water's edge. She doesn't seem hurt, he thought. He wasn't sure how old she was specifically, but her strange behavior and emaciated form suggested she wasn't surviving well, at least not on her own. Didn't she have a mother? Or a pack, like Dusk-something was?
"You--um, have family? You alone?" he chewed worriedly at his bottom lip. Perhaps he should just start spitting words randomly to see if there were more she recognized? His attention was pulled back to her sorry wings, tattered feathers clumped with blood and debris. He lifted a paw and carefully gestured towards one, though he made no move to get any closer. "Wing? Fly?"