Post by specĸleғooт on Nov 17, 2011 16:43:40 GMT -5
Runningfoot slowly lifted one of his sandy paws, shifting it easily and quietly through the long grasses of the moor that danced in the breeze around him. The day was bitter for the slender short-haired tom because he hated how the crisp leaf-fall wind buffeted his soft, pink ears; he hated how the morning dew clung to his paws and made his toes wet and cold. Even so, he'd never complain aloud. His clan came first; the rabbit came first.
It was in the rocks a few tail-lengths ahead, right by the Falls'. Runningfoot's pale blue gaze never left the brown form as it shifted, choosing to graze on the grasses behind the rock, out of the irritating wind.
This is mine! he thought triumphantly as new energy warmed his old legs and adrenaline seared his veins in preparation for the chase. Bursting forward, the sandy tabby dug his claws into the ground with each stride and quickly closed the space between them. The rabbit raced away, suddenly alert!
"Mine!" he hissed under his breath, urging himself on. With a final leap, he stretched his paws out and caught the rabbit's haunches, pulling the struggling body toward him so he could pin and kill it swiftly.
The display to any other would seem savage and intense, but here in the moor, lived warriors who fought and hunted to stay alive.
