private I CREATED MYSELF — rumblerain

[Thriftfeather]

If there was anything good to be found in the absence of so many clanmates, it was that there weren't so many mouths to feed. It also left the clan with less mouths to hunt, but Thriftfeather had been more than eager to volunteer himself as aid wherever possible. Anything to get his mind away from the feeling of tacky blood dried into fur, or the hollow space those traitors had left in his heart. Thriftfeather doesn't think about it—he tries not to think about it—and he does well, all things considered.

Sunrise graces the moors golden—it reflects off of the packed snow and back into Thriftfeather's eyes. He squints through early morning mist and beyond that, over the loud gorse-blooms. Wind pushes Thriftfeather from his back, urging him a step, two, forward. The moors are unfurled like those gorse flowers, inviting Thriftfeather onward. To the left of Thriftfeather, his companion: he offers Rumblerain a sideways glance and a small smile.

"It was around here that—that—I saw the hare around here," Thriftfeather points with his chin down the hill, then turns back to Rumblerain, "I left without disturbing it, so it shouldn't have left the area."

The hare had been an impressive size—large enough that Thriftfeather had thought fit to not take it on by himself. A long, loping stride, ears that, even from Thriftfeather's distance, had looked scarred from battles won and lost. Thriftfeather exhales a cloud of fine-mist vapor, thinking like a prayer his hopes that the hare hasn't moved on.

@RUMBLERAIN​

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

 

[RUMBLERAIN]

𝐵𝐸𝑇𝑊𝐸𝐸𝑁 𝑊𝐻𝐴𝑇 𝐼𝑆 𝐿𝑂𝑆𝑇 𝐹𝑂𝑅𝐸𝑉𝐸𝑅 ✧ 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍

• 
  
  — rumblerain | tags
  — they/them ; moor-runner of windclan.
  — lanky black-and-white point with blue eyes.
  — "speech" ; thoughts
  — art by mercibun
  — penned by mercibun. @ me in any official tabbytales discord for plots.
  
  

​

Thinking about the deserted moors makes Rumblerain nervous. The amount of patrols Snakehiss has been able to send out has been effectively halved, the steady flow of cats roaming to and from camp reduced to a trickle. They try not to think about it; try not to think about their (former?) family, their lost friends, the WindClanners turned traitor. Instead they've taken to pacing camp, carving paths in the fresh snowfall and trying their best to shove the powdery flakes out of the little hollow in the field before the majority of the Clan woke up for the day. They'd been interrupted before they'd gotten far, Thriftfeather calling them over with the hope that they'd help him track down and hunt a hare. Too big for just him, he'd said.

Thriftfeather is not a cat they've categorically called a friend in the past. Rumblerain has always categorised him as Luckypaw's friend. The thought makes them wince, a movement that could be seen as a twitch between steps as they follow him across the frost-brittle territory. Before he can see, the night-dipped warrior shakes the thought of their littermate loose from their mind. Their exhale mists in the early morning air, obscuring their vision briefly.

Steeling themself against the pervasive memories that threaten their hunt, Rumblerain focuses on their hunting companion as he pauses to scent the air. He's taller than them, dawn-gold fur unruffled by the cold unlike their own. They're similar in age, made moor-runners in the same meeting, but they've exchanged little aside from pleasantries in the past. He's nice enough, if a skittish mirror to their own nervousness.

They remain quiet as they continue padding through the territory, relishing the first rays of sunlight, and as the wind shifts slightly Rumblerain's nose is swept by the scent of their prey. Immediately they perk up a little, pawsteps rejuvenated. After what feels like an eternity but isn't long after that, they catch sight of the hare in the distance. It's a magnificent thing, tawny and scarred and mouth-watering. Rumblerain tenses, breaking eye contact from it to afford Thriftfeather an awed look of delight.

"That could feed the whole Clan." They breathe, blue eyes alight with appreciation. "How do you want to do this?" They're warriors of the same experience, but Thriftfeather has a moon on them in age. He'd also found the hare, so they're happy to defer to him on this.

​

 

[Thriftfeather]

It's Rumblerain that spots it this time. Thriftfeather follows their sight and goes breathless when he sees it again—whole and tattered, rooting the ground for a meal. Rumblerain says it could feed the entire clan and, while Thriftfeather knows it to be an exaggeration, in the moment he feels it to be true. Inhale, exhale—before the worry can take him. Thriftfeather is aware of all the ways he can fail in this. Rumblerain looks to Thriftfeather, asks how they should go about this, and at once Thriftfeather is aware of a dozen more potential failures.

"We'll want to go behind it, otherwise it'll catch our scent," There will doubtlessly be other hares around; they are rarely alone. Still, Thriftfeather doesn't want to lose this one. His eyes flick as he thinks: upwards, left, right—too rapid to see anything, "It would be—I think we should flank it on either side. You can scare it my way, you're probably faster than me." Rumblerain is all legs, sinewy like the hare. Indisputably WindClan.

"If you can get it near me, I could take it down." For the first time, Thriftfeather speaks with certainty. He knows that, at least in this, he is capable. He nods once, not confident, but sure, "And then you could help me keep it down." His mouth twists—not a smile or a grimace, but the wry inbetween, "Sound good?"​

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