TAGS — There is a predatory slope to his posture as Hemlock stalks back with the rest of the colony. For the journey home (
home, is that what he is calling it now?) his mind has been abuzz with recollection and rumination. There is a certain amount of smoky frustration in each exhale, though the bone-cold tom manages to mask it well enough. He is even-keeled and methodical; he steps carefully; he says the right things at the right times; he is a good, reliable cat. This all must be true, or else he doubts that he would be in the good graces of Snapping Timber or the other elders of the colony as he is now-- but his skepticism of Cicadastar's offer runs deep. Perhaps he is less suspicious of the tom himself than he is of the warriors (whatever the title meant) he seemed to command; at once snapping and snarling, at next heeled, loyal hounds they were. He is tired of his home being shifted as river tides; he is
fearful, maybe, that Cicadastar's words would ring hollow soon, that
assimilation if not violence would befall them all. He is not meant for that, he thinks. He is hardly meant for
this.
But he supposes that is what other minds are for, though he seldom trusts them more than his own. Snapping Timber is wise enough, though, to meet his satisfaction; he turns towards the elder as Rye and Splinter do, largely ignoring the quips of the kittens at his back. He watches the other's attention shift to Splinter, and he finds himself wishing it would fall upon him, too, for his own knowledge and guidance, though he says nothing of the desire. Instead he listens first, considering the future that Snapping Timber paints-- and his grim outlook seems to be shared with Tempest. He doesn't like the idea of those RiverClan cats (and what an odd name for a colony, he thinks!) knowing exactly where he sleeps; even
if they could close their jaws and sheathe their claws, even
if the offer of help is sincere, there is a certain amount of caution that must be taken, isn't there? Leading those cats right to their camp-- what would the colony do if the other river-dwellers chose to come back once their help was no longer useful?
Hemlock's pale gaze flicks to the young molly, his own ears twitching with thinly-veiled discomfort. "
I agree with Tempest," the tom rumbles, obsidian. He fixes his attention back on the elder, pale brows furrowing over eye-and-socket. He wants to obey the elder's wisdom, but at the back of his mind, a different instinct claws;
do the smart thing, Hemlock. Those cats want to rid themselves of threats. Maybe Snapping Timber is finally going senile. But what is the smart thing, anyway? To abandon this river? To move himself
again? He is already protecting himself against that fate, staying with the Colony-- maybe he ought to hear out the RiverClanners after all? Hemlock takes a pensive breath; he holds it in his lungs until they burn. Finally, he sighs, "
I hesitate to take those dogs at their word." Ice clings to each pointed syllable, a glacial distrust that must run deeper than this single interaction; perhaps this berg has been embedded in him for a long time, now. "
But if we must hear them out, then so be it. I'll help prepare for... evacuation." He picks the word carefully, as one picks the bones out of flesh; flicks his gaze to Mouse. He dreads her disappointment; for he assumes there will be no pact with these Clanners, whatever they were, but perhaps even he can be surprised. He lingers only to hear any reply from Snapping Timber, then with a flick of his tail is off to help gather whatever they may need for a coming journey.
