Rorret had taken Catrine’s advice to venture inland. A part of him was eager to linger in the region, see if anything might come of his little game at the lake. But it was prudent to move along, and hope that he might some day hear of the fruits of the seeds he’d sown, if any.
And so he traveled west, veering south to avoid the heavier pack-smell. He spent most of the day sleeping beneath the tree cover at the edge of the forest, but had roused himself earlier than he might have liked in order to get back moving. He was tired, but at least the sky was mercifully covered, the worst of the sun dampened by clouds. If he was lucky, maybe that would hold until nightfall. The sun did tend to hurt his eyes.
Important questions, now:
Where would he go?
Who would he be when he arrived?
Where would his next meal come from?
He would not be so lucky as to find another corpse lying forgotten in the snow, he thought. But Rorret was not built for the sort of hunting that sustained his appetites, and he no longer had the support of his Shadowclan brothers at his heels. He might have to rely on simpler game, and even then, he would prefer to scavenge than hunt.
But perhaps he would find someone’s discards. Perhaps he would find someone willing to share a meal in exchange for a story. Perhaps he could convince someone to do the difficult work for him. So many possibilities; he need only wait, and be patient, and hope that something might come to fruition.
And so he walked, made irritable by the open spaces of the hills, the difficulty of blending in when there were so few long shadows cast. He was, fortunately, built low to the ground, and his winter coat still blended well enough with dirty snow—but anyone who came upon him now would undoubtedly see him.
Sep 05, 2017 08:27 PM
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