They have learned to adapt, those that call the Cove their home. They become what is necessary. They meet their own needs, whatever they may be.
Kult follows the purple pointed mare, not because he has to, not because she asks. Kult does so because he wants to, it is easier than breathing following Kersey. and usually it is entertaining. The Cove is growing, as he knows it must, yet still he is often sent to search for more toys. Dusk is the best time for hunting, as most things tire from the days events, letting down their guard as they settle in for the night. Not Kult, he has been dozing off and on all day, enjoying the warmth of Summer on his back.
Now is the time for entertainment, now is the time for study. He knows the part he plays, he would lead the chase, he would subdue the specimen. He would be rewarded with his sister's performance, watching hungrily as she plucked apart their trophy.
Today is different. They find prey, as always, no matter what they have to settle for. A very small, sickly looking filly trembles against the dying plants. She calls out for Mother and Kult tenses, listening, watching. But there is no Mother- there is no one.
His sister nudges the girl, helping to lift the child on the frail sticks she calls legs. His name is said, his one ear turning towards the sound, eyes flat as he looks over the girl. An odd thing, with water trailing up her body, and sightless eyes.
"Eyes." He hisses, pulling away as Kersey touches his side, head whipping to glare at her. Snorting at her like she is a fly sent to pester him, and turning to the girl. "Come. Cove. Kirin." He breathes into the girls face and he can't imagine what he must smell like.
