After stumbling across Stormpaw, Ganymede had continued on his journey, feeling rather lost - both literally and figuratively. The forest was scorched, confirmed by the young tabby she-cat. The tom knew in the back of his mind that it meant his home - his little dip in the glen, had fallen to the fire as well. It was only the fear of acknowledging this realization that kept his paws moving. Gany stayed close to the Thunderpath, becoming rather acquainted to the large monsters that would rumble past. They didn't bother him, and he didn't bother them. The smell was quite rancid, but if the loner strayed from the black road, he'd surely become more lost than he already was.
A rumble grew in the tom's belly, accompanied by a dryness in his mouth. It was clear it was time for a rest, but Ganymede knew that if he stopped, he'd have to confront his fears. A hill sloped up from the Thunderpath, crested at the top by massive trees. Their leaves looked blue on the distant horizon, swaying gently in the breeze. It reminded the drifter of his home, and subconsciously, his paws directed him in the direction of the hill. Tears began to well in Ganymede's large blue eyes, and he blinked them away. There was no place to return to... The young tom had left his glade to find water, but let it get scorched in his absence. Part of the tom still wished he hadn't left at all. That maybe searing his pelt off would be better than living without the place he'd been raised. His mother was buried there...
Gany found himself winded as he climbed the slope, panting wearily. He needed to hunt, and find water. The trees were even bigger from up close, impossibly tall and whimsical. They shaded the whole area, offering some shelter from the scorching heat. A clearing dipped down into the hill, cleared of grasses and ferns. It set the tom's fur on edge with the amount of strange scents and smells. A lot of cats had been here... Could this be a clan's camp? Why does it matter? Ganymede asked himself, feeling quite small in the shadow of the four great oaks. Perhaps he'd be caught by a warrior, and they'd shred his pelt. Good. He could go back to his glen as a ghost. The bicolor tom lowered himself into the peat soil, legs aching and maw dry. His muzzle hit the dirt in utter defeat, and the tom closed his eyes, wishing to die under the trees in a dramatic way. Ganymede felt harsh, and let his emotions free.
