- Aug 4, 2024
- 32
- 5
- 8
Howlkit crouches low in the thick underbrush, the tangled ferns and gorse swallowing him whole as he burrows deeper into their protection. The plants weave tightly together along the camp’s walls, creating a barrier that few can pass through easily—and that’s exactly why Howlkit has chosen this spot. He presses his small body against the damp earth, feeling the cool dirt cling to his fur, blending him even more into the shadows. His dark pelt, flecked with bits of dried leaves and moss, makes him nearly invisible among the greenery. The air here is heavy with the scent of wet soil and crushed foliage. The occasional thorn snags at his fur, but he doesn’t care. It’s a small price to pay for the security this hiding spot offers. Amber eyes, sharp and alert, flick from side to side as he listens intently to the sounds of the camp beyond the undergrowth. He hears the distant murmurs of the warriors, their voices low and rumbling like distant thunder. Occasionally, the sharp, high-pitched voices of other kits ring out, playful and carefree. Fortunately, the gorse and ferns block out most of the noise, wrapping him in a muted cocoon where he can finally be alone with his thoughts.
Howlkit’s ears twitch, catching the faintest rustle nearby—a bird hopping through the grass, maybe, or a breeze stirring the leaves overhead. His muscles tense instinctively, coiled and ready to spring, though he knows it is unlikely someone could sneak up on him here. Still, he can’t help it. Every shift of the wind, every sound, every flicker of movement keeps him on edge. It always has. Baying Hound taught him that nothing is ever safe. Not truly. That lesson burns into his very soul, and even here, among the supposedly secure walls of the camp, Howlkit can’t shake it. There is always something, someone, waiting just beyond sight, waiting for him to slip up, to make a mistake. And if he does, if he lets his guard down even for a moment, the consequences could be dire. He digs his claws into the soft dirt beneath him, feeling the cool, gritty texture ground him for just a second. His mind races, thoughts spiraling like a storm inside his small skull. Do the others wonder where he’s gone? Do they care? The other kits rarely bother with him, too caught up in their games, their laughter, their normal friends. They don’t know what it’s like to carry the weight of constant vigilance. To always expect danger, even when there shouldn’t be any.
Out here, tucked away from their carefree play, he can finally breathe. The camp feels too open, too exposed. Eyes always on him, voices always pressing in. Howlkit hates it. His heart beats steadily in his chest, though there is a familiar tension in his limbs, a readiness to bolt if he has to. Even now, crouched and concealed, he is prepared for the worst. What if someone comes looking for him? What if they find him? His throat tightens at the thought. He doesn’t want to be found. He isn’t ready to face the open, to be pulled back into the light where every twitch of his whiskers might be scrutinized, judged. He isn’t like the other kits, able to abandon fear to engage in play. Howlkit narrows his amber eyes as he presses himself even lower, his small body nearly flattening against the earth. If they come, he will stay hidden. He will let the gorse and ferns do their job, let the shadows cloak him until they give up, assuming he has wandered off somewhere else. He can stay here for a while longer, just until the feeling in his chest loosens, until the sharp edge of his awareness dulls enough for him to emerge.
[ @doepath ࿔ ]
Howlkit’s ears twitch, catching the faintest rustle nearby—a bird hopping through the grass, maybe, or a breeze stirring the leaves overhead. His muscles tense instinctively, coiled and ready to spring, though he knows it is unlikely someone could sneak up on him here. Still, he can’t help it. Every shift of the wind, every sound, every flicker of movement keeps him on edge. It always has. Baying Hound taught him that nothing is ever safe. Not truly. That lesson burns into his very soul, and even here, among the supposedly secure walls of the camp, Howlkit can’t shake it. There is always something, someone, waiting just beyond sight, waiting for him to slip up, to make a mistake. And if he does, if he lets his guard down even for a moment, the consequences could be dire. He digs his claws into the soft dirt beneath him, feeling the cool, gritty texture ground him for just a second. His mind races, thoughts spiraling like a storm inside his small skull. Do the others wonder where he’s gone? Do they care? The other kits rarely bother with him, too caught up in their games, their laughter, their normal friends. They don’t know what it’s like to carry the weight of constant vigilance. To always expect danger, even when there shouldn’t be any.
Out here, tucked away from their carefree play, he can finally breathe. The camp feels too open, too exposed. Eyes always on him, voices always pressing in. Howlkit hates it. His heart beats steadily in his chest, though there is a familiar tension in his limbs, a readiness to bolt if he has to. Even now, crouched and concealed, he is prepared for the worst. What if someone comes looking for him? What if they find him? His throat tightens at the thought. He doesn’t want to be found. He isn’t ready to face the open, to be pulled back into the light where every twitch of his whiskers might be scrutinized, judged. He isn’t like the other kits, able to abandon fear to engage in play. Howlkit narrows his amber eyes as he presses himself even lower, his small body nearly flattening against the earth. If they come, he will stay hidden. He will let the gorse and ferns do their job, let the shadows cloak him until they give up, assuming he has wandered off somewhere else. He can stay here for a while longer, just until the feeling in his chest loosens, until the sharp edge of his awareness dulls enough for him to emerge.
[ @doepath ࿔ ]
