- Jul 15, 2022
- 218
- 35
- 28
The marsh doesn't truly wake from its Leafbare-long slumber until the air is heavy with the buzzing of countless biting insects. Betonyfrost's wilted ears flick periodically, both in a half-hearted attempt at shooing the pests and in tired annoyance. The mud beneath Betonyfrost shifts, despite or because she hasn't moved in some time; she watches a shallow pool of green-topped water with an interest normally not found in her. The subtle reshifting of her weight to prevent herself from falling forward into the water, the now-increasing pattern to the flick of her ears: the intensity of her interest has rendered her to nothing more than these scant movements.
Beneath what Betonyfrost understands to be a mild amount of film, the pool is teeming with tadpoles. They move quickly, some limbed, many more tailed, in both varying sizes and shades of gray-brown-black. When Betonyfrost does move, it is to suddenly splash her forepaws into the water in an ill-fated attempt at grabbing one of the tadpoles. It accomplishes little, other than wetting Betonyfrost's whiskers and stirring silt from the bottom of the pool. The tadpoles, perhaps sensing that Betonyfrost is no skilled fisher, or more likely not having anywhere else to go, scatter for just long enough for Betonyfrost to swear and pull her paws back to the only mildly drier land.
"Terrible things," Betonyfrost spits, as if she could scold them into being caught, "You're more useful to me once you've crawled from this—this mud. Fatter too."
Beneath what Betonyfrost understands to be a mild amount of film, the pool is teeming with tadpoles. They move quickly, some limbed, many more tailed, in both varying sizes and shades of gray-brown-black. When Betonyfrost does move, it is to suddenly splash her forepaws into the water in an ill-fated attempt at grabbing one of the tadpoles. It accomplishes little, other than wetting Betonyfrost's whiskers and stirring silt from the bottom of the pool. The tadpoles, perhaps sensing that Betonyfrost is no skilled fisher, or more likely not having anywhere else to go, scatter for just long enough for Betonyfrost to swear and pull her paws back to the only mildly drier land.
"Terrible things," Betonyfrost spits, as if she could scold them into being caught, "You're more useful to me once you've crawled from this—this mud. Fatter too."
shadowclan warrior | blue mackerel tabby | 30 moons | tags