Rorret was beginning to grow more accustomed to the darkness, but he was yet to fully adapt to a nocturnal lifestyle, and he was in no hurry to. Rorret didn't sleep much, even during the day. He got by with small catnaps whenever he could catch them, and even when he slept his brain didn't shut down: he always thought, wheels spinning within wheels, the cogs of his mind in constant uneasy motion. His thoughts when he slept were like dreams, uneasy dreams of half-formed plans, but he was always in control. Never had Rorret lost himself. Never had he let his thoughts get away from him.
Nevertheless, he was presently awake. Sundown would come in a few hours -- the sun was a lazy orange disc in the western sky -- and then he would need to return to his pack, perhaps gather for an evening hunt with his companions.
But for now, the night had yet to come and time was, presently, his. He stretched and yawned and adjusted the ribbon he carried with him, wrapping it around his throat like a loose collar. What to do with all this free time? He considered going to visit Azalea, to peek in on her life, but he hardly had time for that -- it was a half-day's journey to the edge of her territory, if he took it at a run. And, besides, what was the point?
Still, he was both bored and restless, and those were two very dangerous things for a shadow-dwelling cannibal to be.
With no concrete plan in mind, Rorret set off across the rocky marsh that made up his territory, weaving his way expertly through the thick growth, stepping lightly on the swampy ground. It was hot, hotter than any spring day had a right to be, and flies and mosquitoes swarmed around his paws. He ignored them, and picked up the pace, breaking out of the dark clump of trees and heading for neutral territory on the edge of his swamp.
