- Jun 14, 2022
- 128
- 33
- 28
A warm breeze learns the shape of ShadowClan's border, and heats its breath on every complaining monster darkening the black road. It is early still, not quite bright enough to pale the sky light blue, though not so dark that eyes glint in every muddy thicket. This is the sort of weather and time preferred by the sensitive skin and eyes of one such as Rosemire, and yet he does not poke his way through the territory for frogs. He does not eye the distant sun and slather his fur with the wetland mud. He does not sit in camp, staring into air.
Where he is begins with where he was— and the newleaf wind kicks up his scent along the Thunderpath like idle pebbles underfoot, slightly stale and likely fresh when the moon was high. The acrid stink of monsters pollutes the border quite heavily, yet it cannot conceal the odd twoleg prints in the mud, long and deeply wrinkled, and most importantly, overlaying impressions of large paws.
Where he is begins with where he was— and the newleaf wind kicks up his scent along the Thunderpath like idle pebbles underfoot, slightly stale and likely fresh when the moon was high. The acrid stink of monsters pollutes the border quite heavily, yet it cannot conceal the odd twoleg prints in the mud, long and deeply wrinkled, and most importantly, overlaying impressions of large paws.