hell in the streets - hunting patrol

[HARBINGERMOON]

☾ Once called upon, the warrior was never late to obey. Setting off immediately, the plush Tunneler decided to traverse rather far into the territory. That way, they'd have plenty of room to show-off hunting methods and utilize both above and below techniques. With a slight limp, the patched tom padded alongside Fogbound, his face a grimace of disinterest. All he wanted to do was lie down after all that fighting, but no cat could sleep, let alone rest. Til all was clear and bellies were full. Keep it together, you offered, so there's no use in throwing a fit now. He'd had to keep up appearances for far too long, but if it was the will of his leadership, then he would obey.

Trotting over the hills for a few more paces, his pace slowed dramatically as he neared a dip in the hill. A small entrance hidden by tall grass peeked out the opposite side. Casting a glance at his fellow patrol leads, the worn tomcat drawled. "I think this is as good a place as any. What do you think?" Sure, he had worded it as a question, but Harbingermoon would gladly have a fit if the other insisted on wandering further into the moors. Throwing his gaze over a fluffy shoulder, he looked to the apprentices and nodded as a way to usher them forward. You little fleas better pay attention. Holding back a disgruntled groan, he chose to clear his throat for a moment. Bulbous tail swaying absently as he awaited further opinion. ☽

@FOGBOUND @BLUEPAW @Thriftpaw
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[FOGBOUND]

your entire existence gives me a headache, go stand over there .
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

His smokey fur riddled with bites and claw marks, blood splattered, obvious against the milky white, he couldn’t help but will himself to continue forward, itching to groom himself, ridding him of the parasite’s stench. He sighed, annoyed. The moor runner padded beside the tunneler in long, lazy strides.

He would do anything to sit and groom himself silly, but Fogbound was a respectful tom, even though he didn’t dare ignore Sunstride’s call. The tired moor runner mused, glancing around with a curious flick of his time. “Perhaps.” He grinned devilishly, staring at Harbringermoon with his good eye before stalking forward, excited to finally taste the sweet flesh of rabbit on his tongue. “Let us hope the rogues hadn’t deprived us of all the prey.” He chuffed.

Injured or not, Fogbound was thrilled to hunt, replenishing lost muscle and diminishing that bubbling annoyance that withered just beneath the surface, threatening to tear and snap at some harmless individual.

He caught wind of a hare, muscles coiling in anticipation, Fogbound took off like a loaded spring, ignoring the swell of blistering pain to latch ruby eyes on an oblivious hare. Despite the lack of his full vision, Fogbound took care in keeping the hare without his eyesight, but not long when his teeth found homage in the hare’s neck, sinking into its plump flesh with a delighted huff. ​

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thought speech​

 

[Thriftfeather]

It's when Thriftpaw is away from camp that he can remember to love the moors without being told. He looks over the vastness of it—remembers the smallness of himself—and how it is impossible to do anything else while out here. He can see easily the way that the wind bends the Leaf-fall dry grasses and the way they still, even now, bounce upright, until that very same wind hits Thriftpaw, something so rote that he doesn't need to remind himself to brace before it hits.

He listens to Harbingermoon as he speaks and has the sense to know when a question isn't intended for him. Fogbound answers and then springs into action so quickly that Thriftpaw startles fully—tail puffed and back arched. He settles in increments while his rabbit-heart does not, until at last he tips his head so that the side where his white spots rise like clouds is facing the ground.

"Looks like the rogues missed—like the rogues missed one," Said not quite wryly, but near enough that it was practically so in Thriftpaw's nervous voice.​

WINDCLAN APPRENTICE ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 9 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[BLUEFROST]

“They were lousy rabbit hunters,” comes a low voice from behind Thriftpaw. Bluepaw pads up beside him, her half-lidded green gaze trained on Fogbound streaking after the hare. “I imagine they were used to pilfering Twoleg garbage instead of hunting real prey.” She wrinkles the bridge of her nose just enough to crinkle the blue-gray bridge, her mouth quirking into a flat-lined frown. The stench of crowfood still lingers in crevices in their camp—she imagines rot is what the rogues had been used to.

Harbingermoon nods toward the opening behind thickets of gold-singed grass, and Bluepaw dips her head briefly in acknowledgment. “Wish me luck,” she murmurs to Thriftpaw, departing from the moor runner’s flank and disappearing through the low, cavernous mouth of the tunnel. She shifts her way inside, soil sprinkling the fur around her ears. It’s dark, but her whiskers quiver immediately, the taste of young rabbit bathing her tongue. Perhaps the rogues’ presence drove all the prey under the earth.

She pelts after the fleeing cotton-tail, her initial leap graceful but too-slow. The rabbit snakes around an angle and pops back up into the overworld for one of the above-ground cats to chase.

, ”​

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