Let Us Gather! [Open Hunting Patrol]

Bloodstrike stared at the one field mouse that was in the fresh-kill pile for several seconds. Was that it? It was nearing high noon and this was all that had been caught for the morning? Maybe his other clan mates were nervous about the string of fox attacks lately... He supposed that he could organize a larger hunting patrol for today. His clan would stay safer this way. After today, however, he would try to tell them that they needed to stay in groups of two or three as it had been before. The foxes were a problem that he was working on getting rid of, but for now, it was one that the clan would have to endure. Bloodstrike's eyes glanced around the camp. There were a few warriors out and about, but none of them looked like they were just idling. That was good, because Bloodstrike's patience for lazy cats was nonexistent.

"I will be going out for a lengthy hunting patrol," He said loud enough for the camp to hear him. "Those of you who wish to go, gather around me. Foxes won't be a problem for anyone if we go in a sizeable group." He scanned the faces of the cats to see which ones who look relieved or indifferent. He didn't know for sure if that was the reason the hunting seemed so... pitiful at the moment. Still, their reactions would tell him enough without him having to ask them outright. Not only that, but they were warriors. Aside from Sunflower, he didn't expect them to admit to being afraid of anything.

Smokefeather had been settled outside the medicine den, quietly watching the camp with her head resting on her paws. Fresh scars could be seen beneath the thick fur at her scruff, the puncture wounds the fox had made clearly visible. They twinged only slightly as she lifted her head when Bloodstrike spoke, and Smokefeather silently stood, carefully stretching.

She'd been cooped up in camp for long enough, and she was done. Her paws itched to feel the forest floor beneath them, and being idle for this long had left her irritable. Dustpaw... Well, that hurt far more than any fox bite could, even if there was no physical wound for the clan to see, no blood staining her pelt to mark her struggle.

Sitting in camp gave her precious little to do but think, and Smokefeather was very much loathing every second of it.

"I'll go." She said, voice soft, but leaving no room for argument as she approached her mate. She caught sight of Beechpaw's wistful gaze, but the medicine cat turned away too quickly, silently stalking back into her den with her tail twitching slowly back and forth.

Copperpaw's fluffy form caught Smokefeather's eye, and she debated whether or not to bring him along. The apprentice needed to learn, but the rational part of her brain was very much at war with wanting to keep her son safe. The foxes were still around, and Smokefeather refused to lose another loved one to them. And Copperpaw worried her. He'd been quiet since the fox attack, hardly speaking and even now didn't seem entirely like himself. Shock, Beechpaw had said, and that had certainly been true at first. Yet it clearly went deeper than that, and Smokefeather wished there was something more she could do. Wished she could keep her kit safe.

But that was the life of a warrior. They had to survive and push through it. The clan needed to be fed, and there would be fighting and violence no matter what they did. If it hadn't been Sagelight and Dustpaw, they'd lose someone else. And would continue to lose cats over time, life, death... An unforgiving cycle. Much as she wanted to coddle her kits, she couldn't.

"Copperpaw, you're coming with us." Smokefeather called after a moment of thought.