-it's my character Foxrunning hunting-
Foxrunning finally decided to leave his inactiveness behind, in the dust. He put his past in its place. Behind him, where it belonged. Although how much his complicated backstory nagged at him, Foxrunning would not accept it. What had had happened, happened. The silvery and black tom trotted over to a considerably large tree stump, and obscured his body the best he could. Ferns grew on either side of the stump, completing Foxrunning's hiding place. The corner of the lopsided stump was blackened and flaky. Foxrunning attempted to put his undivided attention into finding prey, put was soon slightly sidetracked by counting the wiggly rings on top of the stump. The leaf of a fern plant brushed against his flank, but Foxrunning managed to evade the distraction it could potentially cause. Instead, he ceased his frivolous counting of rings on a tree stump, and surveyed the forest with much care. His nose was alert, ready to pick up even the faintest scent. Not a single muscle did the sleek tom move, the only part of his body that was moving was his eyes, picking up the sights of the forest. Suddenly, Foxrunning sensed the scent of stoats. Grinning hungrily, Foxrunning slowly emerged from his watching perch. A sinister expression crossed his face as the unsuspecting brown weasel-like creature came into sight. Within mere moments Foxrunning was close enough to pounce. And he sure did. Soon enough, the innocent stoat found itself on the verge of death. The skillful hunter had it grasped in his long claws, which were now reddening at the tips as they penetrated the flesh of the struggling and flailing stoat. Foxrunning already had a victorious feeling, which ascended when the stoat released a weak whine of pain. It was barely alive, but Foxrunning still felt a feeble pulse in the animal's body. Smirking evilly, Foxrunning opened the entrance to his esophagus and sunk his razor fangs into the dying stoat's head. Drops of blood beaded at the wounded, which soon began to trickle down Foxrunning's jet-black paws and the stoat's white belly, which turned pink on contact with the blood. In the last moments of its life, the stoat felt it was falling to the ground. Its heart stopped pulsating. Foxrunning seized the lifeless furball in his strong jaw, and began to saunter back to his usual spot, a triumphant bounce in his step. Foxrunning hungrily gobbled the dead stoat, enjoying and savoring every umami bite of it. It was Foxrunning's first catch in a while, about a half-moon he recalled. He wasn't really up to killing anything that past half-moon, it used to bother him to see blood. He soon got over it, though. He used to just like patrolling, despite its boring concept, and telling stories to the kits, and he thinking they were quite tedious made-up concoctions of a character or two, a problem, a solution, and a moral, but the kits thinking it was amusing. Finally he had finished his kill, bones and all. This was one of those extremely satisfactory moments. Foxrunning always thought he hated new/reliving old experiences, but he soon found out it was quite the opposite. He finally almost felt content with himself. Now he just wanted to catch more prey, to prove himself to himself, as he said.
557 words, 3272 characters.