[gs29513]

He hadn't expected it. None of them had. The flood had come swiftly, day of rain upon rain upon rain exploding through the beaver dam upstream with the force of a tsunami, sweeping through his territory. Everything flooded, everyone gone. He had lost his leverage, his prisoner, and all of the kits. Too small, too easily swept from the crest of the hill where they had taken refuge. And with One, Two and Three gone, Nala and Hazel had gone soon after, one in another swell of water, and the other after a fleeting glance at him, off into the woods. He had been too busy trying to save his own skin, clinging tightly to the tree that had protected him so far. And now, finally, it had receded.

After what felt like a moon without rain it was finally safe to venture down, set paws onto muddy ground and move towards his den. It was destroyed now, collapsed in a dirty heap, the stump long uprooted. It was all gone. All destroyed. And so, after a meal of what might have once been a rabbit, since drowned, Scratch set off to find a new home. Preferably away from the river. Traveling farther and farther into the outskirts, the tom eventually found a place that might be suitable enough. At least, for now.

It was a small clearing, surrounded by oak trees. Two large boulders lay against one another, a small crack within them certainly suitable for a den. Pleased, Scratch collapsed on the grass, resting from his ordeal. He would have to retrieve Hazel and the kits of course, but that could wait. First he must fashion this place into a good home.

He began at once, swathes of moss sliced from tree roots with the accuracy learned through battle. Fashioning his and several other nests in the rock cleft took only moments after he had acquired a goodly supply of material, and before the sun went down he was able to quickly hunt, a mouse falling prey to his claws. The place already seemed like it had been lived in, and he fell quickly to sleep.

The next day he was up and going again, marking out a rough border for himself that encompassed dozens of trees and bushes, all good spots for prey. After hunting he continued to improve his camp, excavating a small dirtplace and draping a large sheet of moss over the entrance to the den, allowing for some degree of privacy. The whole place looked nice, respectable, welcoming. Perfect really. After a break to drink from the stream twenty foxlengths away, Scratch began work on some less tasteful projects.

After marking a rough circle on the small hillock with his claws, the tom began digging. After going straight for a tail-length or so, the narrow and low tunnel became much deeper, a full cats height deeper than the passage above. Into this dark place Scratch brought many thorny branches, covering the walls, ceiling, and floor with them before leaping out. Having collected several large stones already with which to block the tunnel, he retired for the night.

The next day there was little to do besides hunt. After several mice and a squirrel met their demise at his paws, the tom set off. He knew his cats were out their somewhere, and he meant to find them. Especially Hazel. She had his kits after all. And he meant to get them back. But first, he had to retrace his steps.