Cicadabuzz moves with quiet precision, bugs den cloaked in the faint perfume of leaves and roots. The air is cool inside, shadows swaying as light filters through the woven branches overhead. Bugs tail swishes gently across the ground, a living bundle of green and brown. Leaves snagged among the fur, stems woven with deliberate care—but now, one by one, bug begins to strip them free. The motion is methodical. With a paw pressed firm, bug pulls a sprig of marigold loose, sets it down neatly alongside other bright petals. A curl of horsetail follows, the sharp tang of its scent fresh as the day it was gathered. Cicadabuzz pauses long enough to check for damage, discarding a useless stem into a pile near the back wall before tucking the rest among the neat bundles. Bugs movements are unhurried, steady, as though every leaf deserves reverence.
When bugs tail is bare enough to make space for what bug will find today, Cicadabuzz gives a small flick, smoothing the fur with a rasp of bugs tongue. Bugs gaze lingers briefly over the den—herbs stacked, nest neat, cobwebs stretched and stored. Nothing out of place. Nothing forgotten. Bug rises, muscles stretching beneath bugs shaded pelt. The quiet of the den breaks as bug steps outside, the sounds of camp brushing against bug—soft pawsteps, idle chatter, the hiss of pine needles shifting in the wind. Cicadabuzz's pace is unhurried, but there is intent in the way bug moves. Bugs paws carry bug toward the camp's entrance, tail light now, ready to bear new burdens.
At the threshold, bug pauses, nostrils flaring as bug tastes the air beyond. The world outside smells damp with promise, soil rich from last night's rain. Herbs will be ripe for the picking. Without another word, Cicadabuzz slips forward, bugs figure folding into the shadows of the trees, as much a part of the forest as the roots themselves.
When bugs tail is bare enough to make space for what bug will find today, Cicadabuzz gives a small flick, smoothing the fur with a rasp of bugs tongue. Bugs gaze lingers briefly over the den—herbs stacked, nest neat, cobwebs stretched and stored. Nothing out of place. Nothing forgotten. Bug rises, muscles stretching beneath bugs shaded pelt. The quiet of the den breaks as bug steps outside, the sounds of camp brushing against bug—soft pawsteps, idle chatter, the hiss of pine needles shifting in the wind. Cicadabuzz's pace is unhurried, but there is intent in the way bug moves. Bugs paws carry bug toward the camp's entrance, tail light now, ready to bear new burdens.
At the threshold, bug pauses, nostrils flaring as bug tastes the air beyond. The world outside smells damp with promise, soil rich from last night's rain. Herbs will be ripe for the picking. Without another word, Cicadabuzz slips forward, bugs figure folding into the shadows of the trees, as much a part of the forest as the roots themselves.