Mud is slick under Vampire's paws—they're still adjusting to this strange place, though they've always stuck out in anything but a snowfield. Her blindingly white pelt simply isn't made for hunting anywhere but a blizzard, perhaps. Truly, on particularly unfortunate hunts, she's wondered why whatever lurks above had seen fit to make cats of her particular hue. She's used to it by now, though.
They can't say the same for the cold-faced younger shecat at their side, though—but for her white-dipped paws and shocking spine, Bone all but melts into the shadows. Vampire allows themself a tiny sigh of mingling envy and gratitude for the fact that the only thing they'll be hunting this evening is foliage.
Brambles, more specifically. Her chest wound is stinging like a watersnake's bite, but there are vulnerable cats—caregivers, kits, those weaker or older or more injured than herself—in their camp who need a shield like this badly. For all their moral prophesizing, Vampire wouldn't put it past Hawthorne's pack of wolves to stick their snouts into this new home. At least this way, they'll be getting a mouthful of thorns (ha! how ironic) first.
" This ought to deter those softbellies, should they choose to come blundering into our camp. "
She says as much, her voice caressing the possessive lovingly. Already bestowing the title of ownership onto this dank swamp despite her misgivings; she nearly has to chuckle at herself. Her small forepaws tug at a tangle of briar rooted solidly in a clump of thick mud, and she adds,
" Not that such a scenario seems likely to me. It is their cowardice that burdens them, after all, and the softness of their hearts. "
The mud oozes and squishes between her toes. Truly an uncomfortable feeling and one she has never really felt before until now. A part of her wishes that Sable's path would have taken them in a different direction. One not filled with such muck and filth that they have to tread through. The sour expression, hardened and cold is a clear sign of her how she feels about the environment as she steps as lightly as she can as to not stain more of her white pelted limbs with the stuff. In all honesty it is exhausting and though she knows that someone needs to take charge the ones that run their mouths the most she can not stomach to listen to. Perhaps leaving the mountains was a bad idea but the cold drove them down, the sickness drove them down. Death drove them down. Skinny pelts and sunken eyes made them need the shelter of others.
Flexing her claws slightly her ears pull back as she looks around for the item that they are seeking. Particularly happy to not have to expand more energy than need be on chasing whatever thin skinned prey is out here. But her thoughts pause as she hears Vampire speak and her ears twich as she turns to the older feline. Agreeance in fiery orbs. "They wouldn't dare do so. It'll be too dangerous with both sides harmed anyway. They lack the necessary guts for a counter attack." Her words are gentle, quiet, calculative as she turns her gaze back to the brambles that clump in the mud. Our camp. The idea sticks in her skull. Quiet and she allows her eyes to roam over the area. This is to be their home. It is not something she had thought would befall them but she will not place her paws elsewhere. This is what she has done and she will die with the choice. Claws grapple with her side of brambles and she pulls, yanking them free in a coiling teather. "Hopefully we can begin to recuperate and consolidate. Things need order."
Scattered moonlight throws shards over the both of them, fragmenting their muddied pelts into patches of shade and light. Rest and lick our wounds, had been Sable's missive, but Vampire is loath to let her paws lay idle even for one night; and so she tugs at the bramble with muck-slick forepaws, watching as it unspools with needle-pricks into her pawpads. Good. If it prods back at her gentle touches, hopefully it will sink its teeth deep into a foreign pelt, should the need arise.
" Indeed. Luckily for all involved, we aren't the only ones stuck licking our wounds. "
Vampire chuffs a steamy breath out between their fangs, rankling with irritation at the stagnation. It was the best course, yes, but they seemed ready to fester even ideologically—spilt blood had cut deep, leaving them all bound by the tenuous thread of Sable's promises. Small things, they remind themself; small things like what they and Bone do now is what will seed those threads with steel.
And so they pull another bramble from the churning muck, nodding with a double-flick of deeply notched ears. Minds like those of the younger cat at his side are exactly what their ragged band needs to rise, choking and gasping, from this sea of blood. Cats who do not just abhor stagnation but refuse it, refuse to wait for others to take the reins and yank them to and fro. Decisively, she unspools another cord of briar from the mud.
" Yes. To sit and stew for too long would spell our death, or at least the death of anything meaningful. "
They shake out their pelt to little avail; the muck is clinging, stubborn. Perhaps they ought to be the same. Low, they mutter,
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