- Aug 9, 2022
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The water washed over his paws but only made it halfway up his legs, it didn't brush his underbelly or lower chest, nor his tail he held high and aloft in the air to avoid it become a sodden mess. With careful scrutiny he continued to shuffle about, a paw kicking at the sand and cobbled undergrowth of the river's edge, disturbing minnows and setting bits of debris to float and murk the waters around him. Smokethroat's orange gaze narrowed, a gesture that made him wince because the scars on the left side of his face were still very tender; still in the process of healing fully, but at least he was free of Beesong's stinging plaster of plant substance that he'd had to wear across it for days.
There were a few fish on the shore who had dared interupt his prodding about and were swiftly punished for it with a quick snap of teeth and sharp flick onto stone but eventually they stopped bothering him, not moving toward the area where the water rippled in disturbance and the dark tom continued his idle rooting about in the shallows. Occasionally his head would dip down, vanish into the froth and he'd withdraw it dripping and teeth clenched, a stone held firmly within his maw to be taken to the shore and examined; but more ofte than not the quick glance was enough to tell him this was not what he was after. The shadow spill of a cat gave a hiss of annoyance, paws kicking stone and sending them skipping, trudging his dark form back into the depths to continue kicking about until he found something worth his while. Gillpaw had been quite informative, this place was littered with smooth river stones; just ahead the water turned sharply at a bend and the rushing current worked its way around this section with the force of the waterflow daily; every rock here had been whittled down to its core, a flawless surface where the colors and grooves of the stone shown in all their abstract brilliance now free of uneven edges and sharpness. He felt like those stones, at time, that he was being battered down to his core to become soft and complacent; lose his claws, lower his hackles. RiverClan was both a refuge and a prison sometimes and he found himself restless more and more the closer leaf-bare began to approach. The cold of the winter winds, the river a frozen sheen of mirrors that reflected the crisp sky, the sharing of warmth, tails twined in the dark cradle of the den's abyss; gray fur tickling his nose with ever inhale and exhale of breath. Smokethroat gave a start, shook his head and blindly dipped his head back into the water if only to douse his thoughts of such things.
Shaking droplets from his face and neck he caught the glimmer of another stone and gave it a swift slap with his paw to toss it ashore. The river had rippled across this one, blending its white and gray into a glistening marbled surface; the edge of storms, the scent of winter come, the swill of cold breath in the air.
"...perfect."