The sun hangs low in the sky as the convoy of adults return from a successful hunt, their spoils of battle hanging lazily from strong jaws. Of the twelve that had set out, all had returned, with most bearing rewards to show for it. Only a few wounds dot the group, nothing a few days of rest wouldn't fix.
It had been a long and difficult day - but quite a necessary one. With the winter fast approaching, soon dwelling high in the mountains would become dangerous, forcing a migration to the more temperate lowlands, and with that, to even greater danger. The young must be fed, strength built up - all to survive the dangerous trek down the mountain, towards their winter domain in the foothills.
A rhythmic thumping causes the leader of the pack to turn his head sideways, only to spot the youngest male of the group beating their wings happily as they carry their own prey, an uprooted Pecha bush. Ah yes, this was their first hunt, was it not? But a week ago, they were still a Larvesta, barely able to leave the nest without tripping over their own feet. But now, they are a hunter, as their parents were, and as their own children one day will be.
The happy young adult pauses, suddenly noticing the attention it has garnered, before awkwardly stilling its wingbeats. Yet when no further reprimanding is given, the wingbeats return.
Rolling his cross-marked eyes in good nature, the alpha merely faces forwards once more. Let the young one enjoy their success. They did well, and deserve as much.
A single Pecha plant is far from the only reward of the day's work - grasped in the maws of the others are other scavenged foodstuffs - from a hardy Oran shrub, to a mouthful of burgeoning Cheri branches, to even a pair of Persims bushes… Or in the far back, the true gem of their journey.
Nestled protectively in the center of the group to conceal it from others which might attempt to steal it, is the corpse of a Piloswine. A creature with enough meat to feed the adults for a week. Far too heavy to be hauled by a single hunter, instead the burden is shared between three. Even so, the beast's great bulk made it far from easy to drag up the mountain.
It had been a stroke of luck, tracking this one down. The great beasts of ice and brown fur traveled in packs, as did they, and while far from dangerous one on one, to become injured so far from home would be a death sentence. And injury was nearly certain, for the Mamoswine sows which so dutifully guarded their own were just as dangerous as a Volcarona broodmother.
They deserved just as much respect as one of their own. Though they were prey, it was far from difficult to put themselves in one another's shoes. It was for that reason, that the hunting parties gave the Swinub a wide berth. They were hunters, not child-butchers.
This one though, had separated from its herd. And considering how it had been close to the berries they had scented out, it was starving, or lost. Still, it had fought hard for a doomed creature, scoring blows in return, even as the pack descended upon it.
The alpha shivers, clearly remembering the risks caused by taking too long to return. The skies are never safe, least of all when injured. Them having found it was the least of its problems, for at least they made its death swift.
It is a brutal world, one full of danger at every turn. Survival is hard, but it is necessary.
But soon, the group arrives at their destination. For in front of them, lies a yawning cave entrance, one which smelled unmistakably of their occupation, stands before them, offering solace and safety. They quickly make their way inside, out of the gaze of the harsh, unforgiving sky above.
Taking a deep breath, the alpha made their presence known.
With a deep, sonorous roar, the cave shakes for a moment as the Volcarona's cry echoes into the cave, soon answered with roars and cries from within. A ritual to ensure the cave's safety, and more importantly, to rouse any who might be sleeping.
With slow steps, the dwellers of the cave move into the fading light, though light is far from necessary.
The first to greet them are the juveniles - with snow white fuzz only marred by soot and dirt coating their small, stubby bodies, the group of five rush out to greet their parents. Once the pleasantries are done, of course, they immediately switch focus to the food, as is usual. More than one attempt to steal bites of the berries hanging from the bushes, but growls set them in their place. They will eat when it is time, no sooner.
At barely over a meter and a half from the tip of their nose to their tail, the oldest Larvesta, a female, plops down on the stone in front of them, pre-molt wing ridges barely poking out of her dense coat of fluff. Whether it would be in a week or a month, this young girl would be joining them on the hunt soon as well. The others aren't quite as developed just yet, with most being only two thirds her size, if not even less.
A slow, plodding set of footsteps signals the arrival of the rest of the pack. Eight adults arrive, one after another, including the Alpha's mate. It is with great self-control that the Alpha's wings do not beat as the young adult's did, returning home to see everyone safe.
The rear guard were far from cowards - they held the most important task of all - protecting not just the mobile young, but also…
One of the older adults moves to the front, gently laying down on the stone immediately before the pile of berry bushes.
From within their dense fluff, stare six pairs of innocent blue eyes ringed in black, nearly perfectly camouflaged and kept warm from the elements.
And upon scenting food, they all quickly rush to action, with a frenetic energy only truly provided by the mixture of youth and hunger. They descend from the adult's fluff in a disorganized, frenzied mass, tripping over one another the entire way.
The last clutch of the year, and the youngest of the pack, hatched but a month ago. Small, nearly helpless, and not yet capable of regulating their own temperatures. A miraculous hatching, arriving just before the winter's first frost. Had they taken any longer, they might not have hatched at all.
The smallest Larvesta nearly immediately swarm the berry bushes, smelling food and lacking the control to wait. With each being barely a third of a meter long, the young are forced to work hard to close the relatively-large distance, tumbling and leaping and scooting along with fervor. More than one pounce into the bush like a predator, letting loose their own squeaky, garbled war cries as they bury themselves in the bush.
Several adults chuff at the antics, yet none stop them. Let the young eat. They will need it, to grow big and strong. And while their appetites may be huge, their mouths are far from such. There'll be more than enough to go around.
Seeing their younger cousins begin to feast, the juveniles join suit, rushing towards the bushes and happily digging in for their favored fruits. The uprooted plants are a frenzy of chewing jaws and happy squeaks, the true reward for such a dangerous journey. More than one thick brown tail wriggles happily, poking out from the greenery like a stubby Diglett.
The alpha sighs happily. All had gone well. Now it was their time to eat their fill.
With the berries soon decimated and the Piloswine reduced to mere bone and cartilage, the pack retreats into the deep caves to rest.
The waste has been dragged out of the cave entrance, and tossed down the mountain - the scavengers would deal with it. For now, in a post-meal daze, most of the pack lazes happily.
Several Larvesta are wrestling with one another, letting loose little growls of effort as they jostle for position and practice. The more physically skilled of the two pins the other, eliciting a squeak of surprise and annoyance. A barking chirp from a nearby adult is enough to convince the two to reset and try once more.
In the corner, one of the adult females is gently licking clean an annoyed juvenile covered in berry juice. It seems that one of the berries had been a bit over-ripe, and had exploded upon being grabbed. It is for the best that an adult is the one to clean them, for their cousins would likely have taken fuzz along with the juice in their attempts to clean.
As for the alpha?
He happily sits next to his mate, sharing warmth as he watches the scene with half-lidded eyes. They had survived another week - it would be some time before the pack would need to feast once more, and even then, it would be in the lowlands, not in the home caves.
A part of him knows of the dangers that will come from traveling down, but also of the bountiful prey herded there… but those concerns are for the future.
With a low, thrumming purr, the Volcarona adult relaxes and closes their eyes.
Only for a weight upon their head to jolt them to attention.
Gazing up, the Alpha spots… one of the young, happily making a nest atop of his crown of fluff. Their little feet pull up bits of fur as they make a circle.
Feigning winces and grumbles and groans of pain, the Alpha shoots a look to his mate, but the traitorous Volcarona merely chuffs at him, flapping her wings gently.
Letting loose an exaggerated grumble, the Alpha Volcarona merely relaxes again. Despite the disrespect, the youngling is happy.
And if the young are happy, then he is happy.
As it should be.
The intruder atop of his head lets loose a quiet yawn… before stilling, as sleep claims it.
Casting one last look over the pack that he calls family, the Alpha Volcarona lets loose a quiet, satisfied chirp.
Today was a good day.
He can only hope that tomorrow is just as much so.