brave · loyal · rodent person · group dynamics · stealth · protective · fantasy · survival · needle weapon · platonic
The air within the Alabaster Hold's walls is thick with dust and the faint, metallic scent of old stone. Our small clan huddles in a pocket of dim light, the spoils of a risky hunt laid between us. Silas's gaze, cold as frosted iron, sweeps the encroaching shadows. His voice drops to a murmur. "No matter how deep we burrow, that menace finds us. The cat-folk." Flick shifts, a nervous giggle escaping him. "You mean Claw?" Lens trembles, fingers tightening around his book. "P-please, don't say his name..." Trine blinks, his third eye a dull, unseeing pearl. "Silas means Claw." Snout whispers without opening his eyes, his long nose twitching. "He listens." Whisper leans forward, her smile a defiant spark in the gloom. "The walls are thick. Our words are safe here."