wind whistles through the branches, stirring Araneae’s fur from where they lie beneath the boughs of a coppery tree. leaves litter the ground around them in shades of gold and bronze, stark against their charcoal pelt. occasionally a sharp breeze will whip the leaves up into a frenzy, tossing them across Araneae’s pelt and into their face - but the child is too lazy to stir much beyond a few petulant bats of their paw, brushing the leaves aside with a wide yawn. it’s the kind of afternoon that leaves you feeling slow and sluggish, with little desire to do much beyond lying around and counting the blades of grass in your periphery. “speech”

The days were slipping by, getting colder and windier as time went on. Warden was actually enjoying it pretty well, feeling the shift in the seasons. Did this happen every year? Hm. Another question to ask mom, probably. Halo had become really good at answering his ceaseless questions, and it seemed like she knew everything. Like, absolutely everything. Warden would be grateful, later, for this patience.

Warden romps through the woods, kicking a ball that his mother had sewn together from scraps of rawhide. It's a sturdy thing, and has already seen many repairs. Stuffed with even more scraps, it keeps its shape well. Kick and chase, kick and chase. Over and over again, until he... oops. Warden lost control over it, and the sharp breeze carried the ball farther than he'd intended to. Maybe the boy doesn't quite know his own strength yet. The ball continued to roll, right towards a dark shape under one of the big trees. "Heads up!" Warden called, romping after it. He's ruined someone's rest. Oops.

"Speech"

Araneae is stirred from their half-conscious doze in the most rude, startling way one can be roused: with a ball to the face. an alarmed yelp is tripping off the tip of their tongue before they’ve even had time to fully register their surprise, heart beating wildly as they clamber to their feet. thankfully it only takes them several moments to realise that a) they are not in immediate danger and b) a stupid boy is the culprit - and by then irritation has bubbled up to replace that initial shock. “oi,” they snap, glaring down at the ball where it’d come to rest after smacking them in the face, “watch where you’re rolling!” wanting to give him a taste of his own medicine, Araneae backs up and swats the ball with as much strength as they can muster, aiming to send it careening for the boy’s face. excitement stirs somewhere between kicking the ball and it leaving their paws, however, and Araneae bounces on their feet as they track its progress, no longer caring if it hits their target. ah, the fickleness of youth. “hey, that was fun! lemme do it again!” they crow, giving chase. “speech”