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Thistlekit shoves his little pale ginger nose into Squirrelkit's little burgundy tabby flank, fur puffing out in surprise when Squirrelkit swipes playfully in quick response. Less than a moment later, Mousekit is barreling in, knocking Squirrelkit to the ground with a well-timed full-body pounce, ending in the two rolling over themselves on the well cushioned moss bedding and soft dirt of the nursery.
Marigoldkit, in his nest, is a small, tightly-wound fluff of white, wispy in the shaded low light.
The sun has begun its trek through the soft blue sky, shining brilliantly in the beginning of its arc. The clouds are an afterthought, few and far between and interestingly thin looking. The tall oak trees of the humming forest frame the firmament, leafy and green, swaying in the relaxed breeze.
Mousekit bares her small teeth, gnawing on Squirrelkit's shoulder, a stubborn ginger furball. Thistlekit returns to the fray to target Squirrelkit's tail. Squirrelkit's mild squeaking is malformed and outraged.
Marigoldkit purrs.
In a great big heap, Squirrelkit throws both him and his attackers onto his resting brother, who yelps, jolting harshly before thrashing, looking for an opening to worm his way out of.
This is ended, of corse, when Thistlekit jumps on him and he is forced to defend himself, lashing out with sharp, thin kit-claws.
Budclan's camp is a small, cozy, empty place.
Their mother and older sister Faithpaw are out on patrol, searching for prey and guidance, leaving the second of their older sisters to tend the medicine den and defend camp, Pondpaw sorting through herbs and mumbling quietly to herself, dry herb tan tail curling and uncurling as she thinks, not to be disturbed.
As sunhigh approaches, the kits move their play out into the clearing, circling each other with playful, calculating eyes before lunging at each other, flipping and knocking themselves into the ground. Feathers become collateral. There is dirt in everyone's fur.
Eventually, they tire themselves out, flopping down into a shaded corner together, piled on top of each other like leaves, grooming each other's fur messily.
It's a moment after Squirrelkit nearly chokes on Marigoldkit's long, draping fur that Thistlekit raises, "y'think we could sneak out?"
Marigoldkit shakes himself off. Squirrelkit licks the roof of his mouth, grimacing. Mousekit tilts her head curiously.
"Sneak out where?" Mousekit asks.
"Camp?" Thistlekit answers, sounding questioning of his own motives.
Squirrelkit recovers quickly, turning to his brother with a small, quick sneeze between his movements and his words. "And do what?"
Thistlekit rests his head on Mousekit's belly, "look around?"
For a moment, none of them speak.
Then, Marigoldkit pipes up, "do you think we could find marigold?"
The other three look at each other conspiratorially.
"Probably," Thistlekit yawns, stretching fiercely.
With Pondpaw so busy amongst herself, it really isn't hard for the four of them to sneak away.
Immediately, Mousekit trips over a twig, tumbling a tail-length or so before laying, defeated, sprawled out on the ground.
While Thistlekit and Squirrelkit titter amongst themselves, Marigoldkit holds his light laughter, sniffing Mousekit's shoulder imploringly.
"You alright?" he asks.
She lurches to her feet, startling him into skittering back a few steps, shaking herself off vigorously. "Yeah! I wanna catch a mouse!"
Immediately, the other three perk up.
They're not meant to leave camp, but, if they catch a mouse? Maybe they could be apprenticed early! They could go out and have fun every day.
"I bet you I could catch one," says Squirrelkit.
Thistlekit nods, full of himself suddenly, "yeah, but I could catch a bigger one."
Mousekit makes an aggrieved sound. "It was my idea!"
"Yeah," Thistlekit answers, "but you said it. Now it's all our ideas."
Mousekit glares, then lifts her head to look down her nose at her brother. "If I catch one first, then you tell mom it was my idea."
Thistlekit squints.
Mousekit doesn't back down. "It's only fair, right?"
Thistlekit visually thinks this through.
Marigoldkit interrupts their argument with, "but what about the marigold?"
"We can still get the marigold," Squirrelkit placates, very interested in the hunting idea, "but we can do more than one thing, can't we?"
Marigoldkit tilts his head side to side as he thinks.
Mousekit nods encouragingly at him.
He considers very hard.
He relents.
"Okay," he says, "you guys have fun with that."
Mousekit blinks. "But we can't separate?"
"We can't?" asks Squirrelkit.
She shakes her head. "No. How will we know when to go back together?"
Thistlekit, initially lost, nods quickly. "Yeah! We'd be all alone, too."
Marigoldkit can't argue with that.
No one wants that.
While Marigoldkit noses through thick carpets of clover, sniffing intently at every small thing he can catch with his eyes, Thistlekit rests both front paws on the bark of a tall tree, staring up to the branches.
In the background, Squirrelkit and Mousekit fail to catch a bird, the creature tweeting frantically as its wing beats carry it away.
This has been the standard for the last age. Maybe.
None of them are very good at telling time.
The sun is a little lower, though.
They stumble across a patch of odd looking purple flowers as a group.
Marigoldkit approaches first, sniffing carefully, recoiling a little.
"Smells weird," he says.
The other three sneak up on the flowers to smell them too.
Squirrelkit huffs. "No they don't?"
"But they do?" argues Mousekit.
Thistlekit nods. "Yeah. Weird."
Frustrated, Squirrelkit bites its stem.
He immediately spits it out, smacking his lips with distaste. "Eugh."
Mousekit turns to him. "You see?"
"I taste," he answers.
"How does it taste?" Thistlekit teases.
Squirrelkit grimaces some more for dramatic effect. "Bad."
The others snicker at him.
Marigoldkit is watching the flowers sway in the minute breeze and thinking to himself.
"They're very pretty, aren't they?" he probes, then clarifies, "the flowers."
"I mean," starts Thistlekit, now looking at them closer, "a bit, yeah."
"They might be prettier than marigold is," Marigoldkit emphasizes.
Mousekit squints at balls of fluffy purple caught on stems. "For real?"
It's been a while since Marigoldkit has seen marigold, but that's besides the point.
He likes these.
"I think," he says, "that I'll stay here, and you guys can hunt around me."
The others look between each other for a few moments, but there are no complaints.
Marigoldkit flails around on his back in the flower patch, crushing a few stems and getting the fluffy petals stuck in his fur. Then, he gets bored, and naps in the pile where a patch of sunlight has concentrated, snow white flank gradually moving with his slow, relaxed breathing in the warmth.
As time passes, he finds himself needing to shift his position.
None of his littermates get lucky. Or, none of them are good at hunting. Both are probably true, because none of them catch anything. They're all still so very small, at almost four moons old.
Eventually, the others curl around him, and he stops feeling the need to chase warmth when it's so readily available to his aching paws.
They've done a lot today.
They don't normally do so much.
In the end, they don't walk home on their own.
Near sunset, when the sky is the dazzling orange of Mousekit's pelt, they are found by their mother, Pondpaw looking frazzled and wide-eyed beside her.
Hopestar sees them and slackens, shaking her pelt of fear.
All four of them are found asleep.
In their cranky complaining on the way home, the kits are heard arguing.
Thistlekit's high pitched I just got scolded voice is heard whining, "It was Mousekit's idea!"
Even though Mousekit caught nothing. None of them caught anything.
Mousekit bites back, "leaving camp was your idea!"
Pondpaw is a nervous wreck. "Did you eat the alliums!? How many did you eat!? Do you feel sick!? Guys!?"
When they get home, Faithpaw does not let them leave the medicine den for a week straight.