- Apr 30, 2023
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For as long as it has been since Thriftfeather has truly walked the territories, his paws step into old footholds as if the distance in time has been only a day or less than. Midday offers no gentle reprieve from the chill and the plants have shrunken to blue-gray husks of their familiar forms, and yet Thriftfeather's heart aches in tender relief. This—his white-tipped ears shifting rabbit-like atop his head in every direction, the heavy feeling of the open sky above him—is the exhale that he has been waiting for.
The winds have not brought any prey-scent Thriftfeather's way. This doesn't dissuade him, despite how far the sun has climbed since the patrol had departed. Hunting in DuskClan was often just as fruitless, moreso—experience has tempered his expectations without touching his wants.
And then: solace.
Thriftfeather's ear catches the sound of rustling brush before he sees a nearby bramble shiver. His mouth waters with the possibilities of a something just out of sight. He nudges one of his patrolmates and gestures with his chin towards the source of the noise—a bid for silence. Dropping low enough that the fur along his belly traces over the frost-slick ground is a familiar motion, as is the fluid way his shoulders roll beneath his skin. Like this, Thriftfeather can pretend that he had never left.
The wind shifts moments before Thriftfeather is preparing to pounce into the brambles. It gives a warning of less than a heartbeat of time: this close, the scent of fox-musk feels as though it has surrounded Thriftfeather completely. A thin black nose emerges from the brush. Deeper still, Thriftfeather can see slitted amber eyes. His reaction isn't immediate, but still quick enough to avoid the teeth that snap into the space his muzzle had previously been. He yelps out a pained sound as if the fox had truly bitten him and scrambles backwards, back already arched and face split in a hiss.
"Fox," The warning is belated and hushed by Thriftfeather's own fear—the fox has already surfaced from beneath the brambles, has already folded its black ears to the raised ruff of its neck.
The winds have not brought any prey-scent Thriftfeather's way. This doesn't dissuade him, despite how far the sun has climbed since the patrol had departed. Hunting in DuskClan was often just as fruitless, moreso—experience has tempered his expectations without touching his wants.
And then: solace.
Thriftfeather's ear catches the sound of rustling brush before he sees a nearby bramble shiver. His mouth waters with the possibilities of a something just out of sight. He nudges one of his patrolmates and gestures with his chin towards the source of the noise—a bid for silence. Dropping low enough that the fur along his belly traces over the frost-slick ground is a familiar motion, as is the fluid way his shoulders roll beneath his skin. Like this, Thriftfeather can pretend that he had never left.
The wind shifts moments before Thriftfeather is preparing to pounce into the brambles. It gives a warning of less than a heartbeat of time: this close, the scent of fox-musk feels as though it has surrounded Thriftfeather completely. A thin black nose emerges from the brush. Deeper still, Thriftfeather can see slitted amber eyes. His reaction isn't immediate, but still quick enough to avoid the teeth that snap into the space his muzzle had previously been. He yelps out a pained sound as if the fox had truly bitten him and scrambles backwards, back already arched and face split in a hiss.
"Fox," The warning is belated and hushed by Thriftfeather's own fear—the fox has already surfaced from beneath the brambles, has already folded its black ears to the raised ruff of its neck.
WINDCLAN QUEEN ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 20 MOONS ✦ TAGS
