Post by tenacious on Nov 20, 2010 18:43:01 GMT -5
The wate rsang as it ran over the rocks and pebbles, carrying fish with ti downstream. It moved along at its own pace, never bothering to take into account what was going on elsewhere in the world. Storms could make waves crash, could make some of it froth of its banks and flood the territory, but still the river set its own course, and still the river refused to vanish. Forget the open, sparse moors, where cats were nervous and flightly, just like the rabbits they fed on. Forget the pine forest, where cold winds hardened the hearts of the flines that lived there, and forget the forest, where the cats were as loud as thunder, but lacking thunder's grace.
Forget them all.
Remember the river.
A grey and black tabby tom sat on a stone at the edge of the water, his tail curled around his paw; one was lifted into the air as he stared into the water, blue eyes flicking back and forth. The tom's paw suddenly lashed out and a fish was caught on his claw. Purring, the tom killed the fish and set it aside, pausing in his hunting to look up at the sky overhead. He was a senior warrior of RiverClan, close to retirement age, although he was lucky enough not to experience the ailings that drove most cats of his age to the elder's den.
Age was but a number to Rookheart.
The tom returned his gaze to the water, pondering events in the forest as he did so. Tension did not seem too apparent, now, but there was always the possiblity of him being wrong. (Rookheart felt it was his need to know and to analyze the going ons in the forest, for he was a senior warrior, and therefore called upon often if the leader and deputy needed the advice of a Clanmate.) Rookheart shook his head as he hooked another fish; he could not be wrong. All was well with the Clans.
All had to be well with the Clans.
Forget them all.
Remember the river.
A grey and black tabby tom sat on a stone at the edge of the water, his tail curled around his paw; one was lifted into the air as he stared into the water, blue eyes flicking back and forth. The tom's paw suddenly lashed out and a fish was caught on his claw. Purring, the tom killed the fish and set it aside, pausing in his hunting to look up at the sky overhead. He was a senior warrior of RiverClan, close to retirement age, although he was lucky enough not to experience the ailings that drove most cats of his age to the elder's den.
Age was but a number to Rookheart.
The tom returned his gaze to the water, pondering events in the forest as he did so. Tension did not seem too apparent, now, but there was always the possiblity of him being wrong. (Rookheart felt it was his need to know and to analyze the going ons in the forest, for he was a senior warrior, and therefore called upon often if the leader and deputy needed the advice of a Clanmate.) Rookheart shook his head as he hooked another fish; he could not be wrong. All was well with the Clans.
All had to be well with the Clans.