The only thing that stalled his efforts to travel was exhaustion and hunger. Day by day he had made a wider circuit from the den, traveling closer and closer to the border of Glorall despite Sarabi's repeated warnings to stay near the den. She was no doubt frustrated with the lack of obediance from Blackthorne but his very essence hinged upon such thwarting of tradition. Natiya behaved admirably, always doing as Thorne or Sarabi said, often caught between the pair when Thorne disobeyed. He was too young for such fire, truly, and Sarabi easily manuevered him by grabbing his scruff and dragging him back to the den, amidst screams and snarls. He took to clawing at her nose whenever possible or, when angry at having been cut off from his pursuits, punishing her by pressing his sharp milk teeth hard into her belly.

She had begun to bring them half-eaten food and Blackthorne took to it like a pro, devouring it until he threw it back up, his belly rejecting it at first. His sister did not even approach the food until he was done, recognizing her place in the heirarchy of their relationship, but she never once complained. The morning had dawned bright and when Sarabi had taken off to hunt, Blackthorne had slipped from the den with a grin. He had told Natiya she could come with him, for once not ordering her to watch the den because, as he had begun to figure out, it didn't stop their mother from hunting him down.

Natiya refused, wanting to explore nearby, and he shrugged, uncaring. Then he set off in a singular direction, determined to travel farther than he had before. That is how he came to cross the borders of Glorall and how he came upon a baby rabbit. It pressed itself flat into the grass and he basically stumbled upon it; after all, he was still a mere pup and only half-way weaned. Chasing it was beyond his resources. But fate had other things in store.

Like a snake he latched onto it, picking it up around it's neck and carrying it a good distance until he lay between the roots of a tall tree just outside the grotto's entrance. Well, one of them anyways. Then he pause, sniffing the rabbit which sat frozen between his little paws, trusting perhaps that fate would save it. Until he took it's tiny limb into his mouth and snapped down as hard as his milk teeth would allow. But it is enough - he feels the tiny bones fracture and the rabbit jolts forward in pain, struggling.

He lets it go and watches it struggle, the shadows casting across his eyes so they appear almost black. Only the sunlight would make them gleam a silver. The rabbit struggles to move, its body quivering, and he follows it at a distance. When it comes to stops he would smack it so that it would run once more, interested in the way it struggles despite knowing it wouldn't make it. It is the chirp that alerts him to nearby wolves and for a moment he turns his gaze away from the injured rabbit. It would die of shock, no doubt, but by the time he turns around it has hidden itself away.

So he does what is natural: he investigates. He heads into the grotto with calm paw-steps, pausing when he spies the two yearlings ahead of him. One is snarling, her words accusatory, and the other seems cowed. It is her submissive posture that sparks his own small tail to rise, his lips quivering, and he emits his own puppy growl. It is instinct that causes him to do this, his eyes trailing over her then to Sekhmet. "Is the rabbit here?" The voice that projects from him is strangely deep considering his small figure, but also suave, a thrownback to the grandsire he does not know. And so he waits, eyes flashing between the mysterious pair.