busy paws [open]

Smoky clouds blotted out the morning sun, a dense mass hanging low in the sky. Although the weather was pleasantly mild, warm southernly winds circulating through the forest, the bright light of sunshine found itself hidden behind the churning of a storm. Most cats had a natural dislike for days like this, the gloomy ones that lacked conviction. Not warm, not cold, not bright, not dark. Hanging somewhere in between. Overcast had seemed to put a dampening on RiverClan’s mood, the elders being especially ornery and the kits batting moss balls around with only half their usual energy. With a good portion of warriors either hunting or patrolling the borders, the camp had a certain lull to it, a quiet laziness that seemed vaguely contagious.

One black cat, hobbling on three legs, fought such epidemic. Spiderleg, with a bundle of moss in his mouth, happily bounced his way to the apprentice den, amber eyes bright and shining. He had awoken with a need to be busy, to do something useful. After asking Duckstar once (meaning four times) as she enjoyed her dawn breakfast and receiving nothing concrete for him to do (“maybe just relax for today, Spiderleg” ha!) the inky tom had begun picking his way around camp looking for tasks. He certainly didn’t want to be idly sitting about when Ashenfang or Poplarstep returned from a tiring patrol! The elders had quickly shooed him away when he offered to patch their draft ceiling, a chorus of annoyed crows banishing him from their gossipy pow-wow. Despite being technically labelled an elder himself, the clique of grumpy old birds rarely included him in their conversations. Which was fine, of course. Though it did make for lonely nights. His inspection of the warriors den come out short, finding nothing needing his attention. Thus, Spiderleg turned his effort to the apprentice den, figuring he could beef up the moss lining the flooring, maybe extend it a little up the wall to better insulate the room.

Wiry moss in jaw, he called out a jumbled greeting to be sure he wasn’t invading on a clan mate’s privacy. After hearing no response, Spiderleg pushed in. A strange, bitter wave of nostalgia pulsed through him. This was where had had tried and failed. Tried and failed. Tried and failed again. To be a warrior, to make Dawnfur proud, to make his family proud. The dimly-lit area always conjured regretful feelings, a faint churning of loss in his stomach. He physically shook the negative emotions away, black head moving back and forth as if to dislodge the feelings. There wasn’t a point in sadness. And besides, who else would take care of the camp? Repair what was broken? He was Handyman Spider and for now, that would have to be enough.

He began patting the moss into the corners of the den, humming gently as he went about it.

NOTES: anyone is welcome!