the only sound (open)

The stillness had sent him into a bit of a doze-- not a sleep, truly, but just a constant stare, gazing softly down at the surface of the river. Besides the rampant splashes of ice, and the slight congealed solidness of film being hurried along in the current, the river was barren. The fish must be down at the deepest parts, huddling in for the winter. Did fish do that? He thought Autumntear must have mentioned they did, maybe, or where else did he get the idea? Maybe Silvermouth forced it into his head during one of her foxdung mouth-off sprees. Yeah, that was probably it. You know, sometimes it was hard to remember what was fact and what was nonsense his sister spouted, as most of what she spouted was, in fact, nonsense. His mind moved so quickly it often did not filter out what needed to be filtered out.

Buckthorn was off in this strange neverland when a terrified frog bounded onto the bridge rim, gave a frightened croak, and jumped into the river. He looked up and watched a few more bound away from some strange new threat. He flattened himself against the stone, ears rotating madly to try and hear the source of the threat. All he found was more disconcerted croaking and the sound of the sleet falling. Slowly, he raised himself to his haunches, looking around for the disturbance. His quickly flashing eyes landed on something unusual-- a bright speck of gold, sticking out of a sore thumb against the wet brown mud. He tilted his head slightly to the side and gave a chirp of worry. Unable to contain his innate curiosity, he bounded silently off the ledge of the bridge, across the stone, and stopped about a foot away from the mud. He crouched, flicking his ears slightly. Following the golden outline-- which he realized, quickly, was a tail-- he managed to discern it was a small, cat-like shape. He prrowed kindly. "Either birds have grown cat-tails and begun to hide in the mud, or someone has drifted a ways from camp." He sat up and grinned. "Come out, my muddied friend. You're in no danger from me." Quiet and shy, Buckthorn felt akin to some kits. They were restless and curious and had not a cruel bone in their bodies, kind of like himself.

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Intrigued, Buckthorn watched the kit experiment with the mud. First, she adhered herself to the mucky ground by squeezing down, almost as to hide from him. He worried, for a moment, that he might have to step in and help the poor babe out of the sinking mud, but soon enough she freed herself. There was a satisfying schlorp as the kit burst from the ooze, then turned round and proceeded to play in it. The rain was beginning to lessen, so the goopy brown gunk was not being washed from her fur. She turned to face him, and Buckthorn could not stop a small laugh from escaping his maw. He began to walk towards her, thinking about the best way to get her clean, when she quietly proclaimed she was a frog.

"A frog with fur? I've never seen such a thing." He said, feigning astonishment. "How do you keep your fur clean, my froggy friend?" He did a small circle around her, trying to fight back the giggles. He knew he should reprimand her for being out of the nursery-- indeed, quite far away from camp-- but he just could not bring himself to do it. Buckthorn was far too nice to ever berate anybody.

"Come, little croaker. Frog skin may be suited to mud, but cat fur is not. Come into the shallows and let's get it loose, and then I'll escort you back to camp."

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