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It was stupid. He was brash, a wild and scrappy kid that composed himself of over-politeness and self-sacrifice. It was almost common knowledge by then that the youth was tired, that he stayed up all night in the library before he slumped over in exhaustion, that he wasn't used to the chill of winter and shivered throughout the day, that he padded along the border every day and patrolled. He hadn't expected there to be a backlash to common work, despite the unfortunate reality that it had happened too many times.
It was by the border that the evidence was stashed. It was a scene obviously of a struggle, tufts of fur and splatters of coppery scented blood, the stench of Exiles hanging thick in the air; Radiantpaw's scent mingling amongst Aristotle's own. He was gone, and despite the fact that he had been captured, it was his own fault. Perhaps his tiredness caught in the way - he was feeling particularly exhausted, leaving him vulnverable? Or, maybe his mind was wandering yet again, so he could have been lost in thought when he was ambushed. It didn't matter, he was gone. Congratulations, Aristotle.
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