- Jun 9, 2022
- 404
- 96
- 28
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ He's become mildly claustrophobic, avoiding the confines of the splintering red horse nest whenever possible. During greenleaf, the mice spread throughout the hay is a guarantee for keeping one's self well-fed, but the stench of the animals combined with the captive atmosphere make Weasel uncomfortable enough to relocate.
He will make quick kills in the mornings and evenings to fill his belly, but otherwise, he's been out under the sky. There's been a dry heat, and the sky is a clear blue without any streaks of cloud. There are no puddles to quench his thirst; he's had to rely on the horse troughs, disgustingly enough, and he'd like to find some fresher water to get the slime from his mouth.
Weasel takes to the moor beyond the confines of the horseplace, and he's awed by the expanse. Fields of heather, grasses swept by the relentless wind. He can almost feel cool here, thin tabby fur buffeted by the gusts that plow the fields themselves. The sun is a pinpoint, directly overhead, showering the world in golden fire.
I never knew this place was here. It's so... big. Open.
He walks, tasting the air and making an almost comical expression of surprise at the scents caressing his glands. Rabbit, hawk, heather. His senses feel cleaned, cleared of the Twoleg stenches carried by the creatures at his home.
He feels free. There's an itch to run, to chase a rabbit over the expanse of land, but he isn't hungry and the desire is made purely of adrenaline.
Weasel is drunk on the feeling of escaping the horseplace, being somewhere new and unexplored, and he becomes numb to what may lurk around him. A fool's move, but Weasel is nothing if not that.
@SOOT.
He will make quick kills in the mornings and evenings to fill his belly, but otherwise, he's been out under the sky. There's been a dry heat, and the sky is a clear blue without any streaks of cloud. There are no puddles to quench his thirst; he's had to rely on the horse troughs, disgustingly enough, and he'd like to find some fresher water to get the slime from his mouth.
Weasel takes to the moor beyond the confines of the horseplace, and he's awed by the expanse. Fields of heather, grasses swept by the relentless wind. He can almost feel cool here, thin tabby fur buffeted by the gusts that plow the fields themselves. The sun is a pinpoint, directly overhead, showering the world in golden fire.
I never knew this place was here. It's so... big. Open.
He walks, tasting the air and making an almost comical expression of surprise at the scents caressing his glands. Rabbit, hawk, heather. His senses feel cleaned, cleared of the Twoleg stenches carried by the creatures at his home.
He feels free. There's an itch to run, to chase a rabbit over the expanse of land, but he isn't hungry and the desire is made purely of adrenaline.
Weasel is drunk on the feeling of escaping the horseplace, being somewhere new and unexplored, and he becomes numb to what may lurk around him. A fool's move, but Weasel is nothing if not that.
@SOOT.
✦ PENNED BY MARQUETTE.
