Snow serves a fun new purpose besides freezing his poor paws: visualizing!! Why bother counting things around camp (besides the fact that it is the most fun thing to do, most of the time) when you could create a small, clumpy replica of the thing, instead? The big tom's found a great deal of enjoyment in this, scraping muddy snow and ice together into four lumps (the cedars) and a mound (the cliff face) and then decorating the ugly, amateur replica with whatever pebbles and debris that he can to indicate different things around the real camp. And next, maybe he'll find some way to represent whichever cats are out and about.

This quiet little activity, the one numbing his toes and churning up muck in a corner of camp, is genuinely the funnest thing he's done in a while. One-two-three-four. One-two-thee-four. That's the real cedar trees counted off, and then his misshapen little ice sculptures. And he can similarly count off the dens, the real ones, and then gently pat the messy representations he's strewn about on the ground to count them all off again. The same! It's all right here! He's come full circle on snow: it's great. The possibilities feel endless. What if he starts rearranging things, wouldn't that be incredible? Everything can be given a brand new place, and then he'll be able to sit and think of the effects that might have in real life. It's all just so exciting, and Mosquitopaw can't help the very big smile he has over there while he plays. He's so immersed that he barely notices when light snowfall begins to frost his back and shoulders, though he's eventually cheered by the realization that this means he'll have more ice to work with shortly.

[ OPEN ]

What are you doing? Mosquitopaw's head snaps up toward the voice. This cat...one of the newer apprentices. No, one of the newest apprentices. From the most recent meeting. Mosquitopaw offers what he hopes is a very friendly smile, because that seems to be the right thing to do in this situation. This young cat is neat; he has many colors and markings, whichs means that if Mosquitopaw ever had the time and occasion to do so, he could sort and quantify color-splotches and stripes. But he won't do that right now, because it would mean staring and not saying much, and that would be weird.

"S'uh," he has to focus on the words he's about to say. Talking had always been something of a chore, but to his great chagrin it'd only gotten harder these recent moons. Something to do with how much quicker his thoughts were than his mouth, how much more of a chore it had somehow become to try and express these thoughts to others, how much more worry he experienced over it now than he once had—and this dang chill making his teeth chatter. None of it helped. So he stares at Foxpaw with big copper eyes for maybe a little too long in total silence and then explains painstakingly, "s—so uh. Look," he jabs a paw at each big lump (trees, cliff face) and then at the corresponding landmarks around camp. "I-It's home, see? The tr—uhm, trees, an-an' uh, the cli—see, the cliff, back there?" He gestures again between the biggest snow-muck-mound and then back in the direction of the real cliff face.

"And then, th—, uh, there's the dens." He pokes at each little 'den'. "We are...h—hmmm.....uh, here." He pats the ground, but that feels like a paltry way to indicate their location. Mosquitopaw chews the tip of his tongue. "Wait." And soon enough, that spot is occupied by a small, dark clump of mud scraped from his claws (this is Mosquitopaw) and a bit of wet, brown leaf (this is Foxpaw). Once, that leaf might've been a vibrant, orange-y reddish brownish leaffall leaf, but this late in the season it's just a sad wet scrap. Mosquitopaw is thinking more about what fallen leaves usually look like, which is what Foxpaw seems comparable to. You know, besides foxes.

"There, tha—, uh, that's us. Y-You're the leaf. Get it?" He pauses before ripping at the leaf to make it a bit smaller than the mud clump. The scale here is all messed up, but he can at least try to get the 'cats' right. He nods, quietly pleased by his own work, then lifts his head again to tell Foxpaw that,

"S'great."

@Fits ; FOXPAW

Littlekit sat there in the clearing, watching birds fly around in the sky. Wow, it was probably really nice being a bird. Being up there, free to do whatever they wanted. Being able to fly, too! Littlekit loved the idea of flying, but he knew it was impossible. Kits couldn’t fly, obviously!