EVERYTHING IN ITS RIGHT PLACE \ hunting patrol

[FERNGILL]

Frost and despair bit at him, but Ferngill forged forward; maybe if he focused on nothing but movement, he would not feel the sting of any of it. The last time he had seen Sablemist's face played like a contagion upon his memory, insistent... and he hated to think of her like that, like some sort of disease. But panic wrenched fiercely every muscle in his body, cramping leg muscles and making the flesh unwilling.

So maybe that was why he didn't branch out to land hunting- among his patrol, Ferngill stayed firmly planted on the shore. Cragpaw beside him, he was silent... his nephew would have to learn by watching today, something he was sure he'd apologuse for later. At the glimmer of something moving in the water, all of Ferngill's focus needled upon it- he swiped, barely thought through it as he slammed the fish to shore, killed it with a bite. Only in the haze of aftermath did he realise it was quite sizeable... and even still, he couldn't feel the warm glow of pride. There was no one to celebrate this with.

/ rolled a 20, meaning we are free of predators for this patrol! fron rolled a 20 to catch and a 16 for prey size B)
@CRAGPAW @Thornskip @tarantulamask !!​

✦ penned by pin ✦​

 

[CRAGPAW]

// rolled a 6, he sees nothing

Cragpaw stands close to Ferngill, the frosty chill creeping into his fur and pressing against his skin. His paws are wet and icy from where the river lapped at them, but he stays determined, watching his mentor with concern. He can tell Ferngill's heart isn't in this, not truly; there's an edge of something sad that lingers in the older tom's stiff posture. Cragpaw feels it, too. His uncle hasn't been the same since Sablemist turned up missing…not that he can blame him. The silence between them is thick, broken only by the splash of the ginger tabby's successful catch.

When the fish lands on the shore, the apprentice's eyes widen, but he doesn't cheer. The gleam of scales doesn't bring about the same joy as it normally does with such a sour mood hanging in the air. He shifts his paws and looks down at the river, squinting for a shimmer or a flicker beneath its surface. But the cold waters reveal nothing. His confidence begins to waver and frustration bubbles in his chest. He's here to provide for his clan, to catch something, anything, but all he's doing is failing.

"Ferngill," He says suddenly, casting a glance at his mentor. The word is an offering more than anything, as if to ask if there's anything he can do to help. But then he quickly feels as if he's overstepped and Cragpaw swiftly turns back to the river and tries again, his fur bristling with determination. He bites down the shivers that threaten to run down his spine. He refuses show how cold he is.
​

 

[tarantulamask]

Tarantulamask watches the two figures by the water, feeling the tense, icy silence pressing between them—a silence layered with something beyond words. Ferngill moves methodically, as though each swipe of his paw is both deliberate and distant, the motions automatic. Tarantulamask can almost see the weight on his back, dragging his spirit down like stones in a river. He's searching for something in each movement, something only he can find, but it's clear he won't uncover it in these waters.

Cragpaw stands beside him, dutiful and struggling, perhaps to find footing or some semblance of warmth amid the raw bite of the cold. Tarantulamask sees the frustration in the apprentice's tense posture. The weight of expectation hangs on the young cat, compounded by Ferngill's absence in spirit, and Cragpaw's voice as he addresses his mentor is soft, laced with the uncertainty of someone not used to seeing their guide falter. There's a need in Cragpaw's voice. Tarantulamask understands that look all too well—longing to help but unsure if his offering would be welcome, afraid that stepping forward would only deepen the wound.

Yet Tarantulamask finds nothing to say. His instincts, sharp as they are, fail to produce an answer that might ease the burdens before him. He knows that grief tends to entangle itself in unexpected places, often surfacing in the most mundane of moments, like fishing in icy waters. His eyes trace the shivering apprentice, who hides his discomfort as best he can, a silent soldier enduring the cold. Tarantulamask, in his own way, probes for something he could say, something to cut through the veil. But words evade him. He feels the void between them, the weight of his own silence pressing against the silence of the scene. It's as if the river, too, senses this despair, flowing sluggishly under the frost, mirroring Ferngill's reluctance to move forward.

All Tarantulamask can do is observe, a distant witness to the silent struggle. He knows from experience that grief is not something anyone else can solve, not a puzzle to be pieced together. It's a process, a relentless, often cruel teacher. Ferngill's struggle may be necessary, a passage he alone must traverse, and Cragpaw, standing loyally at his side, will find his own lessons in the watching, the waiting. For now, Tarantulamask holds his silence, sensing that anything he might say would ring hollow. He looks down at the water, his own gaze scanning the cold depths, yet finding nothing there either. The river reflects the uncertainty, the aching desire for what was lost. And Tarantulamask resigns himself to the realization that, here and now, in this frozen moment, there are no answers—nor any prey for him to catch.

[ rolled an 8 ]​