- Jun 14, 2022
- 141
- 55
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// TL;DR Mudpelt fled the hunters into WindClan territory, and in his panic he ran down a tunnel...only to get stuck. He is not deep in the territory, near Fourtrees area
The patrol is on edge, it's clear to see. But the borders need to be checked, and checked again. They can't let fear of the twolegs trampling their land keep them from being a clan, from being warriors. So they put on a brave face, try and quell their pounding hearts, and venture out from the safety of camp to the river. Mudpelt and his clanmates try and keep the conversation lighthearted. They tell jokes, lightly chat about the river's latest new budding loves, discuss training, when suddenly they all halt. The stench of twoleg suddenly grows stronger, and everyone's blood runs cold as a twig snaps in the darkness of a willow tree. Someone yells to scatter, and scatter they do. The chocolate-furred warrior shoves Fernpaw back in the direction of camp, right into the safety of a bunch of reeds. He's about to follow when another warrior accidentally barrels into him in his desperation to flee, sending Mudpelt onto the pebbly ground with a grunt. He hoists himself up, and hears another snap. It's closer. Fear courses through the otherwise brave tom and he sprints straight ahead, paws soon finding the cool stone of the twoleg bridge. His patrol is on their way back to camp. They're safe. He has to run.
Panic drives him forward, onto the edge of the moors where he can hopefully find a quick hiding spot. He's desperate, amber eyes wide with terror as powerful legs send him faster and faster. He feels awkward and clumsy out here on the open, rolling fields, where dips and rabbit holes threaten to trip him up. he grunts as a swath of heather swats him in the face but he keeps running, searching for safety. He comes up on a spot where the earth opens up and threatens to swallow him in darkness, and he doesn't even hesitate. The RiverClanner dives in. A diet of fish keeps his pelt sleek and glossy, but that can only get him to squeeze so far in before he's halted. Grunts escape him as large paws scrape miserably at the dirt, doing nothing but kicking dust into his mouth. He splutters, coughing up whatever earth he had just breathed in before he is left to do only one thing. "HELP!" He calls miserably, voice dulled by the underground, but perhaps amplified through the cobweb of tunnels the moors concealed.
The patrol is on edge, it's clear to see. But the borders need to be checked, and checked again. They can't let fear of the twolegs trampling their land keep them from being a clan, from being warriors. So they put on a brave face, try and quell their pounding hearts, and venture out from the safety of camp to the river. Mudpelt and his clanmates try and keep the conversation lighthearted. They tell jokes, lightly chat about the river's latest new budding loves, discuss training, when suddenly they all halt. The stench of twoleg suddenly grows stronger, and everyone's blood runs cold as a twig snaps in the darkness of a willow tree. Someone yells to scatter, and scatter they do. The chocolate-furred warrior shoves Fernpaw back in the direction of camp, right into the safety of a bunch of reeds. He's about to follow when another warrior accidentally barrels into him in his desperation to flee, sending Mudpelt onto the pebbly ground with a grunt. He hoists himself up, and hears another snap. It's closer. Fear courses through the otherwise brave tom and he sprints straight ahead, paws soon finding the cool stone of the twoleg bridge. His patrol is on their way back to camp. They're safe. He has to run.
Panic drives him forward, onto the edge of the moors where he can hopefully find a quick hiding spot. He's desperate, amber eyes wide with terror as powerful legs send him faster and faster. He feels awkward and clumsy out here on the open, rolling fields, where dips and rabbit holes threaten to trip him up. he grunts as a swath of heather swats him in the face but he keeps running, searching for safety. He comes up on a spot where the earth opens up and threatens to swallow him in darkness, and he doesn't even hesitate. The RiverClanner dives in. A diet of fish keeps his pelt sleek and glossy, but that can only get him to squeeze so far in before he's halted. Grunts escape him as large paws scrape miserably at the dirt, doing nothing but kicking dust into his mouth. He splutters, coughing up whatever earth he had just breathed in before he is left to do only one thing. "HELP!" He calls miserably, voice dulled by the underground, but perhaps amplified through the cobweb of tunnels the moors concealed.