private NON OMNIS MORIAR ☆ claythorn

[CICADAFLIGHT]

The day is lightly misty, tendrils of milky fog settling between the trees with the contented roll of a napping cat's spine. Cicadaflight and Crabpaw cut strange figures in the mist on their trek back to camp through the last bits of greenleaf's verdancy, thick foliage clotting generously overhead as they pass through the Beech Copse and back towards camp. Wordless in the penitent quiet of the hazy day, he nods permission for his ginger apprentice to take his leave for some much-needed rest and turns his own paws towards the nursery. Deep banks of sedge and the quiet sounds of kits at play beckon him in despite his discomfort, and he ducks to slot his muscle-bound frame through its entrance.

" Hey, " he greets @claythorn ; the queen lies in her nest, looking on the verge of repose. The camp is not exempt from the day's fog, and it seems to dampen both his gruff greeting and the general atmosphere. He carries in the scent of damp smoke and rainfall, a thick woodsy scent intruding pointedly upon the membrane of milk-scent and rounded sweetness; in every aspect, he looks out of place. So does the fish he lays before Claythorn, a young salmon that hasn't yet outpaced him in size and now never will; still, its body swells formidably with growing fat.

The sound of her kits at play, just out of his line of sight but doubtlessly within hers, drapes a soothing blanket of nostalgic sound over the den. He brushes the last bits of chunky river-gravel off each forepaw onto his legs, bicolor eyes combing carefully over Claythorn's face. As ever, she's difficult to read, and he tilts his head and draws a paw awkwardly over one tufted ear. His rough, lightly accented voice is tempered by a gentle swell of tentative affection. He would not say it, but Claythorn is probably his closest friend. " How're you feeling? They keeping you busy? "

OOC : —

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