SLY FOX & . CAMPSITE RAID

[CICADASTAR]

− ♱ ABOUT : the sun was beginning to set. with their round patrols, they knew the group were least likely to be here, as the light of day bursts radiant overhead. the forest is abeam in dappled streaks of light, brimming in gleaming shards of green and gold. the early leaffall air is crisp — not yet cold despite the gentle pull of wind at bicolored curls. the cats that follow are silent, quick and agile. strong. prepared. the man throws an icy gaze over his shoulder where his cats lie, silent and still amongst the reeds. there was no movement from inside. the man watches from his perch, pupils slitted against the dying sun, flitting slow back and forth between large, wind - whipped nests. there is less here, now that the separate twoleg pack showed up. no longer do they sport too - bright boxes of color, filthy, stinking glass bottles only scattered about the dirt hollow middle of their camp. cicadastar stills. he watches.

nothing.

finally, the man lifts, stepping forward and tipping orbital ears up. the space away from white - speckled fur is a phantom at his side ; his lead warrior had accompanied him. of course he would. as did otterpop, who stands a fox length away. buckgait scent floats about nearby, but his eyes do not stray. not a soul moves ahead. slowly, a wicked grin passes his face, “ theyre away! take all you can. “ the man announces, voice wild and brimming with life, “ their freshkill pile is in the center, and tied above their nests! grab as much as you can carry, but stay vigilant! “

out of character information translations

• this thread will ultimately have a happy ending, i ask that there are no severe injuries unless plotted out with me beforehand. the chaos will begin soon,,
  tagging those who’ve signed up for the patrol, but it is open to those applicable!
  @Smokethroat @otterpop
  @BUCKGAIT.
  
• − CICADASTAR ; he / him. roughly thirty seven months old, riverclan leader
  − handsome, lanky black smoke tortie chimera with curly fur and icy blue eyes
  − gay. speaks with a thick german accent, former marsh cat, penned by antlers
  
  
• none.

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[BUCKGAIT.]

MY NAME IS BRUTUS AND MY NAME MEANS HEAVY ✧​

she can't stop staring at him. he shouldn't be here. otterpop is capable...but there's a sense of dread that keeps weighing her down. it makes her far too anxious. the earthen molly wants to stop and force him to head back. perhaps it's pure selfishness to keep him from trying to attend, and she can't do anything aside from try to look at anything else. the leftovers of the two-legs litter their territory, discarded items and empty cots. it's sickening to look at, but the amount of food they're hoarding could help riverclan grow fat for the colder seasons. better to withstand the freezing waters.

she is patient and eerily still. low to the ground and muscles taut. she wants to be quick and critical about all this. she knows they've scouted here, but those creatures are as unpredictable as the dogs they hang around. with cicada's approval, buckgait trudges ahead. she leaves the tied ones, climbing is not her strong suit nor has it ever been. she's more focused on what she can pull from their kill pile. far more interested in maximizing her haul than whatever the others are doing. but she is still alert. tense as she listens carefully to the sounding birds. should they be disrupted in their song, buckgait will heed their warning eagerly.
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[otterpop]

Otters heart is the loudest thing he could hear, drumming in his chest and his face certainly expresses his immense amount of worry. He's quite honestly not sure why he has been chosen to help, stand besides Cicada and Buck and Smoke- they were way stronger than him, braver than he'd ever be and he swallows hard. His paws feel like cement and theres a cold feeling settling within his chest, one he knows far too well, fear. He feels so tiny, so afraid compared to these big names near him.

Cicada gives the go ahead. Buck moves with grace and he finds his eyes trailing after her, biting his lip when he realizes what hes doing, shame pricks his cheeks. His eyes finally tear from her form and wander to the trees, where some where hanging. He used to climb the trees his twolegs got him, so it couldn't be that hard and with a deep breath claws unsheathe and hes making his way up the tree. He finds its not as hard as he thought and hes better at it than he is fishing, so once he reaches a branch he tenderly moves forth, tugging at a knot with his teeth.

This couldn't go wrong, right?​

"speech"​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

In a similar vein to Buckgait he is also unsure of Otterpop's presence here, not so much out of any dislike or such but because the other tom was a teribly skittish thing and didn't exactly cross him as very durable. He hoped they would be fine, so long as he kept close to the group nothing should happen.
His form sticks close to the ground, watching and waiting with narrowed blazing eyes until the signal is finally given; the camp is empty. Smokethroat shifts to stand, striding forward with his head up and surveying the litter left scattered about, the strange scent that seemed so artificial and reminiscent of the two-leg city he once dwelled in. He hated every moment of it plaguing his nostrils, wished he could turn that particular sense off for now but rather than dwell on it he moved with a certainty that was partially fabricated and partially confident to what appeared to be a strange, blocky shell with two different colored sides. A swift strike from his forepaws knocked it over, the top splitting and the contents spilling across the ground; ice slides over the earth and begins to melt as he noses about it curiously.
"...what messy creatures..." He turns away from the strange metallic cylinders now rolling across the ground to eye the colorful 'nests' the upwalkers used, moving to push his head past the plastic flap covering the entrance to creep inside and look about for anything.
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