"Roan's First Days"

Part 2

 

The slender weasel dropped its prize into the blanket of autumn leaves and rose up on its hindpaws.  Its eyes locked on Roan, the twitching nose seeking out the chipmunk's scent among the layers of damp and mildewy smells permeating the little persimmon grove. Satisfied that Roan would be a much larger, tastier catch, the weasel dropped onto all fours and lumbered fearlessly toward his striped prey.

 

The young chipmunk stood his ground, the sturdy twig he held serving as the only barrier standing between him and certain death. As the weasel approached, Roan's mind briefly flicked to his natural instinct to flee, but his own steady, indomitable spirit quashed that idea before it could take root. He stood strong--fierce and tall--never once allowing his eyes to drift from his enemy's sinewy form.

 

As the weasel drew closer to Roan, it slowed his pace and cocked its head, weaving back and forth in hopes of finding an opening to attack. Roan carefully turned his body as the weasel edged closer, always keeping his makeshift staff between him and the cunning predator.

 

The sly creature growled its annoyance, shifting position constantly as it searched for the opportunity to strike.

 

"Enough of this," Roan muttered under his breath.

 

The young chipmunk bared his teeth and charged forward. Caught off-guard, the weasel reared up in the air and snarled savagely, its dark eyes glistening with a killer's bloodthirsty hunger. Roan raised his weapon to strike.

 

Someone was about to die.