Written in the Stars

cedarsong

The nice thing about camp, Cedarsong mused, is figuring out how best to not be in camp.

The thought crossed their mind as a patrol set out - the chatter of clanmates faded into the forest as the cats in question departed. Cedarsong hadn't been idling by any means, but they'd woken from a nap with a light stiffness in their legs and a yawn on their muzzle not moments after rising. A slower pace activity would be perfect, but green eyes did not settle immediately on an opportunity and they didn't want to just waltz up and ask whatever clanmates they could find in the area. They wondered, briefly, whether they were on a fool's errand - maybe it would be better to just head out and see what urge strikes them? - before they were drawn into an exchange with an the elder spotting them in their stillness. Cedarsong's words were far quieter than their conversation partner's, not that either seemed bothered by the contrasting volumes. 

"I can manage that."

They murmured back to the elder, having received the request - den-lining supplies, whatever seemed abundant outside camp. And while Cedarsong infinitely preferred the reassuring lack of obligations that came with solitude, the benefits of bringing someone along were twofold: it was safer to have someone with you, and the task to be completed was much easier (twice as much opportunity to bring back something useful). But who? Another cursory glance about their surroundings didn't dredge up much, although -

"Excuse me," they approached one of the apprentices, spotting Slugpaw and figuring that even they could manage this level of interaction. Just like their conversation with the elder, Cedarsong spoke with the measured cadence of someone whose words were turned over carefully before being offered up in their lower, rasping tone. "I'm gathering things for elders. Would you be willing to help?" 

Oh look! They didn't spontaneously combust upon initiating a conversation - good on Cedarsong.


smith