Wind whispers through the moor, restless and low, brushing through Duskhound's dark fur like the ghosts of old storms. It stands on the crest of a rocky hill, where grass thins into dust and the horizon yawns wide—a bruised stretch of blue-gray sky swallowing the last of the day. The air carries the faint tang of rain that never quite comes, a promise or a lie depending on how one looks at it. Duskhound looks at everything that way—half-believing, half expecting it to disappoint. Its gaze sweeps the moor with the slow precision of a hunter not yet hunting for prey. It watches the way the wind bends the heather, the way light fractures across stone. WindClan cats move in the distance, small, darting figures with purpose in their steps, patrols perhaps, or mentors and apprentices training. Duskhound doesn't move to join them. There's a detachment in its stillness, a calm that edges on cold. It is present but apart, as if the world exists just slightly out of reach, muffled through some invisible barrier.
When it finally moves, it does so with quiet grace, paws leaving shallow prints that the wind will erase before long. There's no hurry in its gait; the moor has nowhere else to be, and neither does it. Duskhound's thoughts drift between observation and memory—faces blurred by time, conversations cut short, the persistent feeling that belonging is something it was not built for. It doesn't mourn that fact. It accepts it with the same steady indifference it offers everything else. As night gathers, it pauses by a hollow stone half-swallowed by moss. Its tail flicks once, thoughtful, as it listens to the hum beneath the earth—the small lives moving unseen, the heartbeat of a world that continues whether or not it participates. As it watches, listens, it occasionally sees a line of ants crawl from cracks in the hollow rock. A low, dry chuckle escapes it, barely more than breath. "Persistent things," it murmurs to itself, voice flat but not unkind. Duskhound lifts its head, unbothered by the chill that creeps along its spine.
When it finally moves, it does so with quiet grace, paws leaving shallow prints that the wind will erase before long. There's no hurry in its gait; the moor has nowhere else to be, and neither does it. Duskhound's thoughts drift between observation and memory—faces blurred by time, conversations cut short, the persistent feeling that belonging is something it was not built for. It doesn't mourn that fact. It accepts it with the same steady indifference it offers everything else. As night gathers, it pauses by a hollow stone half-swallowed by moss. Its tail flicks once, thoughtful, as it listens to the hum beneath the earth—the small lives moving unseen, the heartbeat of a world that continues whether or not it participates. As it watches, listens, it occasionally sees a line of ants crawl from cracks in the hollow rock. A low, dry chuckle escapes it, barely more than breath. "Persistent things," it murmurs to itself, voice flat but not unkind. Duskhound lifts its head, unbothered by the chill that creeps along its spine.