
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. "
// @BONE

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