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//THIS WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE THIS LONG
PLEASE DON'T WORRY ABOUT MATCHING THE LENGTH LMAO
The day was particularly cold. Or was it? The sand beaches which he was accustomed to had never been blanketed by even the thinnest layer of snow. It was always warm, never below sixty degrees Fahrenheit, and when the sun wasn't shining down upon the clear waters of the ocean, the brilliant crystal blue usually tagged onto the Caribbean, then there were storms afoot. Great, rolling clouds that covered the sky in a swirling rage of dark gray, benevolent things that poured rain down upon the isle; thunder roaring its mighty call as lightning crashed down upon the water, and sometimes the trees pushed down by the winds. Even then, during those storms, Aristotle couldn't recall being particularly cold.
Waking up that morning from the tree branch of the willow, the youth stretched out his horribly stiff limbs, feeling terribly like he was eighty months old rather than seven. He winced as his spine released a series of cracks and pops when he stood and rolled his shoulders, his ears flattening against his skull. He wished for more hospitable means of shelter, but he was too unfamiliar with owning anything more than a tree to attempt to find himself a cabin. How outrageous would that be? Really, he wasn't rude nor stupid, he was only staying for a few days to recuperate. There wasn't necessarily a surplus of trees throughout the territory, anyway, so the line willow that he had found comfortably close to camp should be counted as a blessing, and he knew quite well how to be grateful for anything remotely useful, despite the circumstances. Quietly, the scruffy cat descended the tree, gingerly stepping onto the snowy floor with a sigh. The breeze he near loathed toyed with his auburn-tinted fur, but its howling sound in his ears couldn't hide the rumbling of his empty stomach.
Ah. He needed to eat.
That was a fact not easily hidden. Due to prolonged travelling, as well as unfortunate circumstances before that, Aristotle had slowly succumbed to near malnourishment. Food had never been easy to come by, so he'd always been small. But, now? Glancing over his shoulder, the feline frowned at the sight of his ribcage peeking out from swallow skin and wavy brown fur, his stomach sending him another warning. How embarrassing, he thought. He was a mess.
Humming in discontent toward himself, the youth sent a determined glance out at the territory, searching silently for what he figured would be potentially beneficial. While all he saw was a wide expanse of snow, seemingly endless on all sides (though he knew that the camp was just over the hill to his left), he could faintly recall a patch of long grasses somewhere near where he joined, and assumed that perhaps there would be prey there which he could feast on. Perhaps a mouse or two, one for himself and one for WindClan, for he didn't want to be accused of stealing. Times had to be tough in such cold, he was sure. Therefore, quite out of time to waste, Aristotle started his trek toward the east.
While he was usually preoccupied with something or other, an idea or particular thought leaving him fuming, poetry to write, a task to complete, when it was just him going somewhere, he was able to appreciate the beauty in this new land. The rolling hills were green underneath the sparkling snow that dazzled him so, and despite the cold they brought upon him, Aristotle found it all so charming. It was gorgeous, the moor scattered with willows, the gray-blue sky and its scattered strings of clouds and the small, bright sun hanging in its midst. It was all so new to him. Regardless, when he reached the grassier part of the territory, leaving a trail of footsteps in the snow around him, the youth wasted no time in crouching down and slinking into the overgrowth. Sight-seeing out of his mind, he schooled his expressions and steeled his thoughts, focused on the more animalistic side that everyone honestly possessed. Ears perked, jaw slightly agape, he soaked up sights, sounds, and smells crucial to his mission. Hunt.
And, after a considerable amount of time, the sun had moved in the sky and he was utterly empty pawed. It was as if all the prey was concealed, protected by the grasp of winter. Disappointing, Aristotle reflected as he passed into clearer land, sighing quietly. Perhaps it just wasn't meant to be. Walking back toward his willow tree and the camp, he supposed he should attempt to do something better with his time, like patrolling, or socializing? Blinking at the horizon, he smiled at its beauty, an optimistic chime sounding in his head. He was good at making the best of the worst. What he was less good at was almost everything else in general, but his eyesight wasn't poor, so he did manage to see the hare scampering in the snow in front of him.
Shell shocked by the coincidence, Aristotle blinked, boggling at the succulent white hare that was running right in front of him and there it goes you have t- Bolting after the prey animal, Aristotle ran as fast as his limbs could carry him, eyes wide with determination. He neared he hate almost easily, chest heaving as he got closer and closer, stomach shocked into silence. A few more steps, just one leap and-
He tripped. On snow, ground, grass, a rock, it didn't matter. Aristotle tripped before he could lunge for the hare, tumbling to the floor with a surprised yelp. The prey was just as time efficient as he, it seemed, for it didn't falter in running away and out of sight in the blink of an eye. He didn't even have time to stand before it was gone, so, he didn't. Strewn in the snow, the scruffy cat laid there, breathing quite heavily. He stayed there, and then sat up, almost graceful, all things considered. His stomach didn't bother to growl, for Aristotle himself had released a frustrated huff, his breath condensing in the air. Pity.
He'd always been useless at hunting.
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