Private Thread Feral Ties

Tiptoe through the murk and mire
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Duskmantle had slipped from ShadowClan’s camp long before the first rim of light broke the sky. Early hunting was a staple in his habits, and as much as an excuse. Dawn was his favorite hour to vanish the world dulled quiet, scents sharp and fresh, and few enough cats awake to notice his absence.

By now, though, the quiet had stretched into hours. He had swept wide, his paws carving a path past Whitehart’s edges, skirting RiverClan’s low banked territory until his steps brought him to the strange, foreign heart of Twoleg lands again.

Duskmantle’s paws slowed as his gaze fell upon one such nest, its garden cut clean, foreign flowers tight in their beds. A she-cat’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. His cornflower eyes snapped toward her, narrowing at the bicolor perched bold on a sun warmed stone like some sovereign waiting for her subject to obey. The tap of her tail beside her only deepened the bristle along his spine.

Duskmantle’s pawsteps did not falter, but neither did he move toward her. His voice, when it came, was low and blunt, roughened by the long walk behind him. "I’m not in the mood for summons."

He kept his distance, standing sharp edged at the garden’s fringe, tail lashing once against the damp ground. "I’ve walked long enough without chatter and I don’t care for games." His gaze cut her way again, measuring, suspicious, before turning back to the house itself, nose wrinkling faintly at the smells rolling from within.