As was expected, the colony's lifeblood had slowed to an imperceptible trickle in the absence of the leadership's guidance. Its aggregate body, riddled with fatigue, did not yield the usual fervour in which to meet a crisis. If anything, the solidarity amongst its members had started to splinter. Fragile, liable to crumble under the faintest pressure, like a dead and sun-baked leaf. Now that Fray has died, it is all but sealed.
But despite the instability, one factor in the colony's formula remained constant: their complacency, and it runs both ways. Casting one's lot in with a mutinous cause is no act of survivalβnot when the goal is to displace a figurehead and claim the mantle of authority.
That, to Quell, is the bare-faced equivalent to shuffling one's paws in a fire. Sable's ego is an impulsive, volatile entity that would sooner drag the colony through a course of destructive transformation than to shepherd its wellbeing. Those who follow him and his ideology are complacent to an equal degree. They've resigned themselves to a ruinous fate at the cost of an unknown outcome. That, to Quell, is unacceptable. That, to Quell, is an infringement upon their own prospects of surviving this Leaf-bare.
Yet, to a vast majority of the colony, their voices are a fleeting, intangible murmur that does not amount to a substantial threat. No one has paid a heed's worth of concern to Sable and his insurrection. Even those who still lend their support to Hawthorn's followers and the current order are, at best, ambivalent to the present state of affairs. They'll react to the ebb and flow, feasibly in a futile last ditch attempt, once the scales tip in a decisive manner. If ever.
Patience and persistence are Quell's primary tenets to any and all endeavour. That is how one wins in the wild. And they've been patient, persistently eyeing Sable's movements across camp and gauging his level of influence in the colony. Though his presence looms larger every passing day, they understand his world is a private one, and he veers into solitude often. Then, and only then, is his capacity to defend himself is compromised. Separated from those who would surely shield him from harm, and at a vulnerable distance from the camp.
The great trees' protective canopy no longer holds Sable beneath its cover, and neither does the relative safety of a number's worth of supporters. No. He is alone, and on the move across an isolated tract in the wilderness. Isolated, that is, except for Quell's breakneck pursuit, their lean build serving to propel their movement with a fluid and explosive ease. Like a gale force, they blow in from the thick undergrowth, a blur of grey-and-silver streaks of fur, and set their trajectory upon the dissident, feral-tempered cat.
Aim for the neck, and sever the throat. Do not hesitate. Do not waste precious moments on intimidation, or to prolong his final living moments. This, too, is the wild's way. Swift, loud, and ruthless.
With a bloodthirsty snarl, the assassin descends on their mark. Claws out, and bared fangs primed for the area between Sable's neck and shoulders, they launch their body towards his and attempt latch on, intent on forcing him to the ground, and making a quick and bloody mess of him.
// @SABLE
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