Cicadabuzz moves through camp with a quiet sort of intent, paws whispering against the ground. The day is neither busy nor slow—it is in between, humming with a restless lull that has the clan drifting in and out of their dens, seeking shade or scraps of conversation. For Cicadabuzz, stillness is a weight they cannot wear for long. Their paws itch for movement, for work, and so they do what comes most naturally—they search for something to busy themself with.
Their tail, decorated with sprigs of old feverfew and crumbling marigold petals, brushes against the edges of the medicine den as they slip inside. The scents are overwhelming to some, but for them it is grounding, a constant reminder of order and purpose. They pause, gaze sweeping across their storage with the precision of a hawk circling the sky. Some leaves are curling at the edges, brittle from heat. Others have fallen into small, untidy piles where curious paws must have scattered them the day before. Cicadabuzz does not sigh, but their whiskers twitch, betraying their disapproval at the disorder. Carefully, they set to work. Each leaf is nudged into place, each stalk of horsetail separated from the rest, the withered ones pulled away to be discarded. They weave fresh sprigs into their tail as they move, slipping into a rhythm that feels almost like breathing. Busy paws keep their mind from circling back on itself, from dwelling on questions with no answers.
When the den is once again in order, they step outside, herbs still woven loosely in their fur. The camp is no quieter, but Cicadabuzz does not linger in the flow of idle chatter. Their paws draw them instead to the clearing's edge, where prey-bones have been left scattered. The vultures overhead may not descend into camp itself, but such mess is an invitation to them, and Cicadabuzz is not willing to risk it. They gather the remnants, carrying them in silence to the refuse pile beyond camp, the sun pressing heat into their dark pelt as they go.
Their tail, decorated with sprigs of old feverfew and crumbling marigold petals, brushes against the edges of the medicine den as they slip inside. The scents are overwhelming to some, but for them it is grounding, a constant reminder of order and purpose. They pause, gaze sweeping across their storage with the precision of a hawk circling the sky. Some leaves are curling at the edges, brittle from heat. Others have fallen into small, untidy piles where curious paws must have scattered them the day before. Cicadabuzz does not sigh, but their whiskers twitch, betraying their disapproval at the disorder. Carefully, they set to work. Each leaf is nudged into place, each stalk of horsetail separated from the rest, the withered ones pulled away to be discarded. They weave fresh sprigs into their tail as they move, slipping into a rhythm that feels almost like breathing. Busy paws keep their mind from circling back on itself, from dwelling on questions with no answers.
When the den is once again in order, they step outside, herbs still woven loosely in their fur. The camp is no quieter, but Cicadabuzz does not linger in the flow of idle chatter. Their paws draw them instead to the clearing's edge, where prey-bones have been left scattered. The vultures overhead may not descend into camp itself, but such mess is an invitation to them, and Cicadabuzz is not willing to risk it. They gather the remnants, carrying them in silence to the refuse pile beyond camp, the sun pressing heat into their dark pelt as they go.
