the price of progress [ whitewolf ]

    Newleaf tends to have the most temperamental of weather conditions of the four seasons. It could be cool and windy, with an almost biting chill in the air still present from leafbare. It could rain ceaselessly, for sunrises on end at times, leaving the already water-hugged RiverClan territory at risk for flooding. It could be hot, not unlike the in the thick of greenleaf, a bane for a thick-furred warrior like himself. Or, newleaf has the potential to be one of the most pleasant times, quite like it had been from the sun's rising to its journey towards its apex on this particular day.

    It is remarkably nice, to put it plainly. Whitewolf journeys from beyond the mote that surrounded camp with sure paws, taking deep breaths as he pads along to relish the air sweetened with budding plants, letting the light breeze ripple through his alabaster pelt. His intention upon leaving his nest had been to hunt, not take a light stroll. The temptation, however, to spend the entire sunrise padding across soft springs of grass and bask somewhere by the river's edge is worlds more tempting. Perhaps, he could come to a middle ground with himself and prey on the fish that dwelled in its depths. This would allow him to enjoy a bit of shore leave, if you will, whilst still remaining a touch productive.

    The warrior in short time can eventually see the sun beaming down to flit upon the water's surface, the light dancing against the gently flowing current. It is not many more steps that a zephyr he is downwind from carries a rather interesting scent that, at first, is not easily placed but definitely feline. A stray cat, he thinks, a mixture of curiosity and a kind of despair passing over to wrinkle his brow in one sweeping expression. Ah, of course, the perfect day was doomed to be interrupted from the start, naturally. One does not have a lack of to-do's without a very high expectancy for fate to come and put its paws where it deems fit to ruin.

    Golden irises luminous by sunlight cast downriver, spying a long-furred shape standing at the soft-grounded bank. With his strong sense of smell, he can tell even from this distance it's a she-cat and that she's definitely not from any of the five Clans. Her pelt moves in wisp-like motions as it is caught by the breeze, light ginger and cream flow tendrils. He watches carefully as he chooses a silent, stalking approach from the rear, observing as she suddenly strikes the water with a paw. Whitewolf's whiskers twitch, seeing a silver flash flail through the air. But a few tail-lengths from her, he can see that the minnow darts back into the water after its brief time on land.

    Seeing the disappointed droop of muted orange shoulders, he suddenly rumbles from behind her, "Not your day, is it?" Not mine either, he adds to himself silently, thinking what he could have possibly done to deserve this kind of a turnaround of his quaint outing.

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    Whitewolf must stifle an amused snort, watching the peach-furred she-cat practically leap right out of her pelt at the mere sounding of his voice. She glances around before finally turning in a half-circle to face him, the thick hair along her spine fluffing up on instinct and her tail following suit, looking quite similar to a squirrel. Her eyes are wide, irises like thick, amber sap. The newleaf breeze surges against them for a moment, flattening her long hair to expose her thin body to him briefly. Perhaps she had come here for a meal, if so, then she’s not doing very well, he thinks. Furthermore: she is not allowed to be here. An alabaster maw parts to speak with authority, but she beats him to it.

    ”You’re so quiet!” Her voice chimes like the noisy jingling of a kitty-pet collar, and Whitewolf makes a face as she goes on. She is still obviously shaken from his silent approach, because he detects a quiver in her gentle meowing. He flicks an ear, trying again to open his mouth to ask what she’s doing trespassing and attempting to steal prey. Once more, the orange and cream loner pipes up, this time completely diverging topics.

    A scarred brow shoots up as she turns away from him suddenly, wondering what in StarClan’s name would make a cat turn their back to a stranger. Whitewolf, as he’s beckoned by the loner with an eager smile, hesitantly pads closer, feeling grass give way to the damp, cool dirt of the river’s edge. He stands beside her as she keeps her gaze on the water, the much larger at her flank confused to what she could have found beneath the river’s surface.

    Glittering scales, glinting in the sunlight flash beneath their noses, Whitewolf watching how she dips into a haphazard crouch as if to strike at one if it comes close enough. Her form is sloppy though, and the way she cranes above the water casts a heavy shadow that makes the fish dart away; it’s doubtful she even knows how to hunt them. He cannot help but think how odd she is behaving, him never having come into contact with a stray quite so trusting as to turn their eyes away from him. Whitewolf feels an inkling of something akin to sympathy for her, thinking that she will have to learn just how harsh the forest is, the hard way.

    Her hurried whisper brings him back long enough to see a sliver of silver flash downstream, flanked by other flitting shapes. "The minnows?" Whitewolf says it a bit like a question, slightly taken aback she doesn't know

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