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A child conceived by a Mymble, usually fell into one of two categories; a full-blooded Mymble, or a Snufkin – a common species of Half-Mymbles. They aren’t a rarity and blend in well, thanks to the dominant Mymble genes, giving them the more, ah, ‘human’ characteristics.
With Joxters, however, things get a little different; rarely seen and even rarer when it comes to conceiving outside of their own species. Loners by nature, they prefer their more likeminded people, but sometimes, there are ones that deviate from the ‘norm’. Like a Joxter enamoured by a Mymble, who found happiness in herself and her children, who always had so much love to give, such bright joy that pulled anyone in. Such love between the two resulted in the rarity of a Mumrik – a Half-Joxter, a Half-Snufkin, who knew.
Carrying the familiar features of a Mymble, soft, lovely and round, yet look closer to see the sharpness in the face, in the eyes, the growing claws. The boy had been hard to differentiate from all his half siblings, so strongly he resembled them, until Joxter had taken a closer look at his son’s tail. It had been darker in colour, covered in downy fur, unlike just the tuft a the tip like the Mymbles. With it came the nature of the boy, who often preferred to explore the nearby woods by himself, darting into the underbrush and chasing after insects to snap his little fangs at them. And Joxter had told Mymble – “That boy holds Joxter blood.” Which in itself wasn’t bad. Joxter delighted himself in watching his young son discover his abilities, paired up with his wild little personality. But he also grew wary, knowing fully well what rarity Mumriks were – especially young ones like his Snufkin.
So, it came to no surprise at the red hot rage boiling within Joxter, as he scoured after the trailing scent of his son. His son, who had been taken. He bared his teeth, sprinting through the dark woods at a blurring speed, glacial eyes set onto the two escaping figures in front of him.
Hunters, wretched creatures who trap rarities such as Snufkin for trades and promises of fortunes. Joxter darted to a tree, swiftly climbing with his sharp claws and using the overarching branches to gain ground. When he got close enough, he didn’t hesitate to dive down, catching both hunters by surprise and wrenching them down onto the cold, hard ground, biting and clawing until he nimbly landed on all fours. He could taste liquid copper on his tongue from where he’d nearly ripped off one ear of one of the hunters, who whimpered in pain. Both of them knew the danger that came with tangling with a Joxter – an angry one to boot, they should count themselves lucky that he didn’t feel like ending them yet. He needed answers after all. Besides, prolonging the wait was another form of suffering agony, a tool Joxter wanted to take liberal use of.
The woods, still dark from the early morning, casted shadows so deep, the two hunters couldn’t hep but shiver at the sight of two feline eyes piercing right through the blackness at them. The eyes shifted, higher and higher, seemingly standing from a crouch until the Joxter stepped out of the darkness, so light-footed, he barely made a sound. He stared them down, when his frowning mouth suddenly curled into a pleasant smile – or, what was assumed to be, with rows of sharp teeth glinting, too wide, too eerie.
“Gentlemen,” he began in a low purr, strutting forward in complete nonchalance as the hunters backed away with each step. He followed them, almost in a leisure stroll until they backed into a naked bush of thorns, barring any further escape. The smile never waned. “Now that I have you here…would you mind? Telling me, that is, loud and clear.”
A black-furred, long-fingered paw with curled claws shot forward like a swift strike of a snake, curling tight around the throat of one hunter, whose scream came choked off. Dark claws dug into soft, unprotected skin, blood blooming in red little pearls. Joxter leaned down, coming face to face, his red hat almost unnaturally stark against the blackness around them. The brim laid a shadow over his piercing eyes, pupils nothing but sharp pinpricks and his smile faded into a blank frown. There was a smear of blood near the corner of his mouth.
“Where is my son?”
***
Snufkin could feel the weight of the wooden lid on his head, as he carefully, curiously took a peek. What was going on? Just moments ago he had been tailing his Papa, swiping at his ankles and trying to nab the playfully swishing tail. Papa liked when he did that, it made Papa laugh. Then, maybe, he had strayed too far from Papa and suddenly, there were hands on him, lifting him until he fell into darkness, to be carried away.
“Get back in there, Mumrik.” There was a paw on the lid, pressing down. They wouldn’t touch his head anymore, not after receiving too many bites and scratches. Snufkin tried to press his head against the pressure, but ultimately was pushed back into the box. He didn’t like boxes.
“Snufkin. Snufkin!” He clarified from within the box in his little voice. Snufkin didn’t know a Mumrik. Snufkin was Snufkin, Papa called him Snufkin. Everyone called him Snufkin, why don’t these creatures? A gruff knock against the box, the sudden loud sound making him jump and hiss.
“Shut up.”
Papa never told him to shut up. Snufkin pouted into the darkness of the box, still feeling that he was being carried. Where were they taking him? He hadn’t told Papa yet, he always told Papa before he’d play Hide and Seek. Playing Hide and Seek with Papa was always fun – he’d hide in tall trees, climbing as high up as he could. Sometimes, he’d hide between roots, giggling whenever he heard Papa playfully calling for him. But right now, Papa didn’t know that they were playing, so how will Papa find him?
His box was jostled almost violently and his sharp little ears picked up the muffled sounds of yelling. The jostling continued, as if the person was running. More yelling – Snufkin didn’t like yelling. Yelling was loud, and loud meant that he couldn’t listen. There was a short scream and someone yanked at the box and for a moment, Snufkin was flying. Then, the sound of a featherlight tap against the bottom of the box and a soft thump, as if someone had landed on the ground. Snufkin stared at the lid in wonder of what had occurred, when it was ripped off, the sound of claws scratching against wood following.
A familiar face hovered over the box, big blue eyes glittering with mirth. “Hello, my little darling.”
Snufkin let go of a happy little chirrup, darting up to rub his head against the Joxter’s nose. “Papa!” He cheered. “You found me!”
A deep throaty chuckle escaped Joxter, as he carefully scooped his small child out of the box into his arm. He stood, nosing the young one’s windswept hair with such an enamoured tenderness, it contrasted starkly to the previous image he had presented the Hunters, when he finally had caught them. “Silly little wildling,” Joxter purred, “I’m your Papa, I will always find you.” The last part carried a different weight, eyes shadowed as he directed his murderous gaze back to the small group of Hunters slowly picking themselves up. A few of them carried crossbows. Snufkin followed his gaze, not entirely grasping the severity of the situation.
“Hide and Seek!” He exclaimed, pointing at the Hunters. Clearly, his childlike mind wrapped this entire thing up as a big exciting game. Joxter let him believe.
“So you were playing, hm?” He gave his son a sweet little smile. “Looks like I’ve found you all. How about you’ll be ‘it’ next. You remember how to count to ten, right, little one?”
Snufkin nodded, unaware of the Hunters advancing on the pair, as he covered his eyes and buried his face into his Papa’s neck. Joxter removed his hat, placing it on his son instead and the wide brim of it nearly covered the child whole. Good.
“Loud and clear, alright?” He instructed gently, pupils thinning as he never took his eyes off the Hunters. His smile had turned thin and wide, too wide, with too much teeth and tail lashing impatiently behind him. “And no peeking.” His only answer was a precious little giggle and one Hunter raised his crossbow. Then, Snufkin began to count.
“One.”
A distinct twang! of a crossbow triggering. Joxter caught it with his one free hand, snapping it in two before burying the sharp end into a nearby Hunter’s throat.
***
“Ten!” Snufkin peeked through his fingers and was met with warm rays of the morning sun hitting his face. He blinked against the dancing spots in his vision and saw that he was leaving the forest, still being carried. Turning his head, he eyed the floppy red brim of a hat and lifted it. “Papa! I found you!”
Joxter chuckled, feeling little clawed hands on his face. “Oh my goodness, already? That was quick.” Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched how Snufkin took a look around, searching. “It seems like your new…friends had to retire early from our game.”
“Oh,” Snufkin said in a mildly disappointed tone. He sniffed the air slightly and scrunched up his little nose. “Stinks.”
Joxter hadn’t missed the coppery stench following them– him. Instead of acknowledging it, he made a show of pulling a confused frown, sniffing the air too as he gracefully stepped along the flat rocks laid into the running creek they crossed. “Stinky, you say? My, my, that must be you!” He proceeded to press his son closer to sniff him over, the little boy shrieking in delight.
Unbeknownst to Snufkin, who now tumbled into his Papa’s lap as he crouched, batting playfully at the nose searching him, Joxter took the opportunity to soak his free hand into the creek. Over Snufkin’s shoulder, he watched silently how a cloud of red was washed away from his hand by the water. He tore his gaze away when he felt tiny fangs pinch the tip of his nose.
“I’m not stinky!” Snufkin exclaimed, tugging at black strands of hair.
“Oh but yes, you are, my little one.” Joxter shook his now clean hand free from the water, flicking some of the excess drops into his son’s face. There was an indignant squeak and Snufkin immediately rubbed his face dry, as Joxter nosed his hair again.
He did stink – of strangers, who had laid their grubby hands on him. The slight whiff of an unfamiliar scent mingled with Snufkin’s usual wildflower and bark and earth smell, was almost enough to set Joxter off again. He felt the urge to turn back to where he had left those useless meat sacks and claw and rip them into ribbons; his instincts still hungered for blood. But he pushed the urge down, in favour of letting his tongue dart out and groom his young one, who struggled while hissing and spitting at the feeling of the sandpapery tongue making his hair stick out in odd angles. Snufkin wasn’t a big fan of baths. However, right now, Joxter wasn’t concerned at the later task of having to chase his son around in order to drop him into a tub – his little wildling was safe. And that’s all he cared about right now. He let go of a low purr, deep within his chest.
“Come now, little Snufkin,” he said, standing from his crouch with his child cradled in one arm, so precariously as if he was holding glass, even if he knew that his wild little son was a far cry from it. Big hazel eyes watched him and Joxter smiled – a gentle curve, no teeth, no face splitting grin. “Me thinks, we deserve a good long nap. After we watch the sunrise, of course.”
***
“Joxaren,” He lazily opened one eye, body still sleep warm from his nap on the sofa. On his chest laid Snufkin, still in deep slumber. Mymble stood over the pair, Joxter’s shirt in hand, face calm despite the obvious splatter of crimson across the white fabric. He hadn’t been careful – he hadn’t really bothered.
“They took him.” Was all he said, detached and void of anything close to remorse or sympathy. Mymble only nodded and wrapped the shirt up.
“You know that won’t wash out.”
A small twitch of the corner of his mouth; now that, that was chagrined.