Brushfyre was pleased with his work. It was hard, it wore his patience thin, but there was nothing like finding a bloodline that ran deep and pure through his charges, and these particular young Skurri practically brimmed with it. Intelligent and well spoken for Skurris, Brushfyre was constantly surprised by his charges.
Sighing gustily, Brushfyre left the Skurri nest, impatient to work with them but they were still too young for the training to stick. He had had to cull several of the younglings, to the glee of the Sentinels around him, as they were particularly delicious Skurri, for reasons that Brushfyre could not comprehend. It also did not help that he was very particular about the Skurri he raised, and it was not a stretch to imagine that the current rarity of the Skurri had something to do with his exacting nature. So, while his fellow breeders raised scores of Mus, and fleets of Chirops, Brushfyre was content with the three Skurri that were about ready to be sent off to be familiars, and their progeny.
Drifting down to a lower branch in the slightly stunted tree that he used for his work in his territory, Brushfyre settled himself for a nap. Steam rested near his talons, always at wing. The poor thing could barely speak, and had limited intelligence, but he was Brushfyre's prize.
A Skurri that bred true almost all of the time, but so undesired by others that there was no threat of another sentinel trying to ask for him as a familiar, compelling Brushfyre to explain why he had to keep that particular Skurri.
Brushfyre chortled to himself, pleased with the knowledge that he would be the best Skurri breeder in the Woods.
