OUR DRIED VOICES [snowy/alpine]

Mothfang had forgotten what he was doing.

The old tom was standing in the middle of camp, his tail tip up and flicking back and forth in a tell of his irritation. An expression of confusion and vague embarrassment had crossed his features and the old tom cast an uncertain glance over one dusky shoulder toward the elder’s den. For a heartbeat he was so confused that he considered backtracking to see if Willowstep knew what he had been planning on doing—he did frequently talk about what he wanted to do see—but the idea of that made him cringe inside. A little burst of fear prickled in his chest—a star with sharp edges driving spines into his heart—but he brushed it aside and set his paws for the Freshkill pile with purpose.

It was nothing, just a little slip of the mind. Every cat had this issue, right? Not just him. The old tom shook his pelt out and picked up his pace, half-wanting to run and run until the confusion left his mind entirely. It was a strange fog that seemed to blanket his mind—he knew he should know what he had been doing but it evaded him. It danced in front of his whiskers like tantalizing prey, and there was nothing he could do to hope to capture it.

He was so focused on his thoughts that he didn’t see Squirrelfang until he’d blundered straight into the she-cat and rolled over the top of her. He landed hard on his side with a pained wheeze, but was on his paws in a moment. Before the bad-tempered warrior even managed to snarl at him Mothfang thrust his nose into her face and snarled, “Get outta my way you lazy lump! Don’t you have anything better to do than tripping up an elder?”

“Well I was going to ask if you were alright Mothfang, but nevermind,” Squirrelfang snorted, and brushed past the tom. He bared his teeth at the she-cat as she passed, but she only bristled defensively and bounded away.

“Get back here! You need to respect your elders!” Mothfang yelled after her. Squirrelfang spat, but plunged immediately out of the thorn tunnel. Mothfang’s prickled as his pelt bushed out. The nerve of her! For a moment, Mothfang wanted to chase the young warrior and cuff her upside the head. The tom took two steps, and then furrowed his brow before sitting down.

What had he been doing again?