Post by Yarrowflight on Apr 2, 2019 1:16:48 GMT
we rise on feathers and wax, child
This patrol's just like any other. Yarrowflight leaps deftly from one branch to the other, always agile and sure-footed. Periodically, they stop and mark a patch of bark with their scent before moving on, never moving too far from their group. It's all done in relative silence, too—and that's the part Yarrowflight hates most. A little conversation wouldn't kill the others, would it? Sometimes, they think it just might.
Their tail twitches as they wait for the others to finish marking a series of tries when another scent catches their nose. Immediately they perk up, ears swiveling this way and that as they try to pick up any sound that might tell them what it belongs to.
All they're met with is the sound of birds chirping and claws against bark as the patrol hops to another set of trees. Yarrowflight's curiosity gets the better of them, and they call out, "We missed a few over here. I'll be right back," which is met with flippant agreements. Yarrowflight is free to wander.
They move further through the trees until they're right on the cusp of the border—really pushing their luck with this. For a moment, they fear that they might have to turn and go back when a flash of russet fur catches their eyes. They focus and see on the ground below, maybe a dozen feet or so away, another cat: large, fluffy, missing part of his leg.
Yarrowflight settles themself down on the branch; when their tail twitches now, it's much more agitated. Their nostrils flare over and over as they take in the other's scent, and they're sure their pupils have grown wide in their fascination—but they remain otherwise still and poised, simply watching for now as the other moves closer and closer underneath their perch.
Their tail twitches as they wait for the others to finish marking a series of tries when another scent catches their nose. Immediately they perk up, ears swiveling this way and that as they try to pick up any sound that might tell them what it belongs to.
All they're met with is the sound of birds chirping and claws against bark as the patrol hops to another set of trees. Yarrowflight's curiosity gets the better of them, and they call out, "We missed a few over here. I'll be right back," which is met with flippant agreements. Yarrowflight is free to wander.
They move further through the trees until they're right on the cusp of the border—really pushing their luck with this. For a moment, they fear that they might have to turn and go back when a flash of russet fur catches their eyes. They focus and see on the ground below, maybe a dozen feet or so away, another cat: large, fluffy, missing part of his leg.
Yarrowflight settles themself down on the branch; when their tail twitches now, it's much more agitated. Their nostrils flare over and over as they take in the other's scent, and they're sure their pupils have grown wide in their fascination—but they remain otherwise still and poised, simply watching for now as the other moves closer and closer underneath their perch.
| Tumbleweed (BARAMATT ) | WORD COUNT: 302 |
NOTES: we doin it, bitch 👀
