Whitepaw picks his way through the frost-covered undergrowth, ears pricked and eyes narrowed in concentration. The early morning light filters through the trees, but instead of warm beams, it brings only a pale, cold glow. The frost has come early this year, biting through the leaves and leaving the ground hard beneath his paws. He grits his teeth, feeling the chill seep through his thin fur. It irritates him more than anything—he should have been more prepared, especially after the few warning nights that had brought cooler breezes. Yet here he is, scouring the forest floor for anything that might help insulate the dens and stave off the coming cold. He searches under every bush, through every pile of leaves he can find. But the frost has gotten to everything before he has. When he nudges a patch of leaves with his nose, they crumble, brittle and lifeless. Whitepaw huffs in frustration, sitting back and shaking a bit of frost off his muzzle. With the forest already showing signs of winter's grip, any materials he might've been able to use—soft moss, clumps of fur, downy feathers—are either frozen solid or completely inaccessible.
Steeling himself, he continues deeper into the woods, brushing his shoulder against the stiff, icy leaves of a bramble bush. He pauses now and then, pressing his nose to the ground, hoping to scent something useful. But all he smells is the cold, sharp tang of frost and dead vegetation. The more he looks, the more he feels the gnawing sensation of failure creep in. He doesn't like the feeling—it reminds him too much of being that weak, sickly kit, helpless in the face of the elements. Whitepaw's breath puffs out in small clouds as he finally steps into a small clearing, a hacking cough echoing out as the cold air irritates his frail lungs. Once he catches his breath, he takes a moment and he scans it carefully, noticing the little hollows where the grass dips, but they're all rimmed with ice. For a moment, he sits there, taking careful breaths and assessing the situation. He's come this far, yet all he's found is a forest stripped of the resources he needs. The Clan will need to find warmth, and while Whitepaw could blame the weather or even the forest itself, he can't shake the weight of responsibility. His pride won't allow it.
Clenching his jaw, he rises to his paws again, determined to make one last attempt before admitting defeat. He circles back, eyes sharp for any overlooked pocket of greenery. Maybe he'll find a patch of thawed moss close to camp, somewhere the frost hasn't quite reached yet. But even as he thinks it, he knows it's unlikely. The frost has been relentless, and every glance at the ground confirms it: there's nothing here for him to take back.
[ rolled a 5 :( ]
Steeling himself, he continues deeper into the woods, brushing his shoulder against the stiff, icy leaves of a bramble bush. He pauses now and then, pressing his nose to the ground, hoping to scent something useful. But all he smells is the cold, sharp tang of frost and dead vegetation. The more he looks, the more he feels the gnawing sensation of failure creep in. He doesn't like the feeling—it reminds him too much of being that weak, sickly kit, helpless in the face of the elements. Whitepaw's breath puffs out in small clouds as he finally steps into a small clearing, a hacking cough echoing out as the cold air irritates his frail lungs. Once he catches his breath, he takes a moment and he scans it carefully, noticing the little hollows where the grass dips, but they're all rimmed with ice. For a moment, he sits there, taking careful breaths and assessing the situation. He's come this far, yet all he's found is a forest stripped of the resources he needs. The Clan will need to find warmth, and while Whitepaw could blame the weather or even the forest itself, he can't shake the weight of responsibility. His pride won't allow it.
Clenching his jaw, he rises to his paws again, determined to make one last attempt before admitting defeat. He circles back, eyes sharp for any overlooked pocket of greenery. Maybe he'll find a patch of thawed moss close to camp, somewhere the frost hasn't quite reached yet. But even as he thinks it, he knows it's unlikely. The frost has been relentless, and every glance at the ground confirms it: there's nothing here for him to take back.
[ rolled a 5 :( ]
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