Flufftail
A rabbit, and before you skip the entry, know that flufftails hold territory the way a grizzler holds a boundary line, just at a scale suited to something you could fit in a coat pocket. A warren isn't a home. It's a claim, marked in dung-pellet cairns at every corner of the grazing, refreshed daily, contested constantly.
They don't fight you. A single flufftail weighs about as much as a bag of scran and knows it. What a flufftail does is thump -- one hind leg, flat against packed earth, a sound that carries further than it has any business carrying -- and within a few seconds every warren within earshot has thumped the message on.
The thump isn't for you. It's a warning broadcast to the warren. But if you're stood on contested ground when it goes off, you've just told every larger thing that eats flufftails exactly where the panic started. I've twice had a grizzler take an interest in me on the strength of nothing but a flufftail deciding I looked like trouble.
They breed at a rate that makes the maths embarrassing to write down, and Hellsborough's flufftail population would be a plague if roughly a third of everything else in the Wisewood didn't consider them a light snack.
Field note: if you hear one thump underfoot, move off the warren boundary before the echo answers back. You don't want to be standing on the alarm when something bigger comes to check it.
| Type | Listener |
| HP | 1 |
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