Drip, drop.
It's raining in the forest, and the patrol ducks underneath ferns and bracken as they attempt to keep some of their pelts dry. Past the dead log, around the pine copse, avoiding the fox den that still smells of death.
Drip, drop.
The patrol leader races ahead, clearing fallen trunks in one leap, bounding across the river with two smooth leaps. The other cats follow, tails flailing wildly as they work to keep their balance on the slippery undergrowth.
Drip, drop.
Finally, they reach the camp entrance and streak past the brambles and thorn, desperate to dry off in their nests. The camp is completely empty.
Drip.
Drop.
Drip.