tunnels what a predicament.... ||

[Cricketcry]

𓆧 It was a relief to escape the feverish temperature of the moor and escape from the ever-present reminders of the fire which had raged above by escaping into the drafty system of tunnels. Cricketcry and a posse of clanmates moved diligently through the tunnels, the mottled tabby at the helm of the patrol guiding the patrol assuredly through the tunnels. He systematically chose which branch of the system to pivot down. It was only a routine perusal of the tunnels, there would be no digging today. Cricketcry would routinely halt the patrol after several tail lengths with a flick of his feathery tail tip, which would indicate to whomever was behind him that he would like to stop and from there the message would be sent down the line. When Cricketcry would pause he would slow his breathing and careen his ears while also parting his maw, tasting the air for any prey and predators which may have passed through the specific tunnel they were in. He would conclude the tunnels ahead were safe enough to proceed and would continue onwards.

As they continue, Cricketcry's nostrils flare as he smells the faint stench of a hare and he pauses quickly, trying to trace its whereabouts. If it had traveled forward, it could be around a bend– as an apprentice tunnelers would be taught not to track a hare into a corner, as they could pack a painful kick, and Cricketcry was not yearning for broken ribs. He paces forward once he concludes the hare’s trail was several hours old, perhaps even a day old, but pauses abruptly– without warning– as he hears helpless squeals echoing towards their direction. Cricketcry flares his ears forward and then rasps, “Do you hear that?” He does not wait for a reply and dashes down the tunnel, his whiskers quavering as he uses them to sense the next turn where the sounds are originating from. Cricketcry leads his patrol towards an open chamber, a naturally occurring hollow in the ground that the tunnelers fortified many moons ago to prevent a cave in. Here, the patrol may spread out without and also stand without the fear of hitting their heads on the ceiling.

He pads further into the chamber, his eyes dilating as he attempts to make out what may be producing the helpless noises that shatter the stillness of the tunnels. He leans forward as he approaches the farthest wall from the tunnel they exited and his nose bumps into a little body, causing him to flare his nostrils as the familiar scent floods his senses, causing his mouth to salivate. Cricketcry gasps slightly, swallowing back his saliva, and looks over his shoulder to announce, “Hare kits–” He brushes the figure with his nose and discovers two more, a total of three leverets in a warm heap. “--three, in total. They must have been abandoned.” Cricketcry nuzzles the downy fur of one of the helpless creatures and then steps aside for his counterparts to view them. “We should leave them here... o-or relocate them,” he blurts hoarsely, his tail wavering slightly as he realizes the ridiculousness of this proposition. His face burns in embarrassment but then he rolls his shoulders, deciding he will stand by this suggestion.

WHITE NOISE, ~ WHAT AN AWFUL SOUND ~

• ooc —
  
• CRICKETCRY —— Tunneler of Windclan 𓆧
  𓆧 AMAB / he/they / 28 ☾
  𓆧 petite, reclusive, timid, wistful
  long coat diminutive chocolate tabby with oddly large mossy eyes
  
  

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[FROSTWIND]

꙳•❅* The black and white tom doesn’t mind following after Cricketcry, but the constant pauses in movement are beginning to drive him up the walls. The other tom is older than him—he should move with confidence through the tunnels, with a swiftness born of his heightened experience. But Frostwind is admittedly alright with the frequent stops, because there’s nothing interesting happening anyway… until there is. The tom in front of him stops short, and Frostwind just barely stops himself from slamming directly into Cricketcry’s backside. "What the shit-" he exclaims, ears swiveling back against his head. His whiskers quiver with annoyance, sudden and searing—what’s this guy doing? Why can’t they go more than two fox-lengths without having to stop entirely just to assuage his anxieties?

The sound of squeaking reaches his ears, and one of them flickers with interest. Some kind of prey—some kind of food. He follows after the older warrior (who finally moves quickly, thank the stars) until they reach an open hollow, where Frostwind is the one who stops instead. Big, open chambers like this usually mean badgers or foxes are in the area. Thankfully, though, the small noises seem to be coming from a litter of hare kits. For a moment he gets excited, and then Cricketcry speaks up and suggests they relocate them.

"Are you kidding?" He asks, although the question is entirely rhetorical. Of course the hare-brain isn’t joking. There’s three little morsels of prey sitting right in front of them, ripe for the taking, and he wants to cuff the tabby over the ear for even considering leaving good food being. "We’re not saving them," he scoffs, "we’re going to take them back to camp and give some kits a good meal. Remember how the whole territory is nothing but ash?" Frostwind can understand letting some young prey grow up to reproduce later on, but in times of crisis, what feeds the clan must be taken.

❆ outpace the dawn

• ooc: —
• 
  FROSTWIND ❯❯ he/him, tunneler of windclan
  ❆ scruffy black and white tom with icy eyes. sly and calculating.
  ❆ son of scorchstreak and badgermoon ; brother to scorchstorm, luckypaw, rumblerain
  ❆ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted
  ❆ penned by foxlore

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