- Aug 4, 2024
- 65
- 14
- 8
Howlkit sits alone at the edge of camp, the cold wind tugging at his fur. The sun hangs low, casting long shadows that make the clearing feel smaller, more enclosed. His amber eyes scan the scene, each movement, each sound—whether it's a warrior's pawstep or the whisper of wind through the trees—is registered with a measured caution. He keeps his back close to the brambles behind him—not out of fear, but necessity. No one can creep up on him from behind this way. His thoughts churn in the quiet, as they always do. Is there something more lurking just beyond the camp's borders? A threat he can't see? He had learned long ago that dangers weren't always obvious, the point only proven by the whole situation with Skyclaw and his fellow rebels. The world has claws, and it takes pleasure in striking when you least expect it. His tail flicks rapidly as his mind runs through familiar calculations: who might be trustworthy, what routes offer the fastest escape, how many warriors are in camp today, how he can avoid them when they inevitably turn on him.
He draws in a slow, deep breath, letting the chill air settle the restless pounding in his chest. Outwardly, he is still—his large frame imposing even for a kit—but his mind is always moving. Watching. Waiting. He glances toward the nursery, where the others are probably tumbling about, unaware of the invisible threats he sees everywhere. His gaze lingers for a heartbeat longer before he tears it away. He doesn't need their games. Doesn't need the hollow laughter or the soft warmth of idle chatter. No, it's safer out here, away from all that. Here, he is in control. He curls his claws into the dirt, feeling the cool earth beneath him. His shoulders are tight, but his expression remains stoic. He had learned to hide the weariness, to mask the endless stream of thoughts with silence. No one could see what boils beneath—no one except maybe him. And even then, he isn't sure he fully understands it beyond the recognition of danger, danger, danger.
He watches as a cloud moves across the sun, casting the camp in an even deeper shade. There's something comforting about the shadows. They're predictable in a way. They might hide dangers, but at least they don't pretend to be anything else. His eyes remain locked onto the slowly shifting darkness, contemplating.
He draws in a slow, deep breath, letting the chill air settle the restless pounding in his chest. Outwardly, he is still—his large frame imposing even for a kit—but his mind is always moving. Watching. Waiting. He glances toward the nursery, where the others are probably tumbling about, unaware of the invisible threats he sees everywhere. His gaze lingers for a heartbeat longer before he tears it away. He doesn't need their games. Doesn't need the hollow laughter or the soft warmth of idle chatter. No, it's safer out here, away from all that. Here, he is in control. He curls his claws into the dirt, feeling the cool earth beneath him. His shoulders are tight, but his expression remains stoic. He had learned to hide the weariness, to mask the endless stream of thoughts with silence. No one could see what boils beneath—no one except maybe him. And even then, he isn't sure he fully understands it beyond the recognition of danger, danger, danger.
He watches as a cloud moves across the sun, casting the camp in an even deeper shade. There's something comforting about the shadows. They're predictable in a way. They might hide dangers, but at least they don't pretend to be anything else. His eyes remain locked onto the slowly shifting darkness, contemplating.