Faint, drowsing breaths alluded a slumbering state—nodded off a moment unspent after the hot-bleached sun sank below an oceanic curve. Schism-like shadows caged a chamber bored into mountain and tree roots, sequestered charcoal fur in cool and tranquility. Spindly tail wrapped delicately across a sleek expanse of sugarcane-long legs, body propped on a tiny perch in a quaint, slate cave. Heavy eyelids closed, appeared lost in transient dreams and catnap, though truthfully oscillating in concentration. Anispine took a nap, but just awoke. His left ear laid flat on the ground, an inquisitive frown notched on his face. Yet to be restless—an all too common condition—he remained on his plateaued bed, ready to jolt to his feet given a newcomer to his den. But his mind mused, instead; the scent of aloe flesh, his paws soaked in honey, a working bee’s proboscis slurping prickly poppy, the tart of lime. Jumbled, at first, he tried organizing his thoughts into a curriculum, something valuable to share to his new apprentice Skinkpaw or even his friend Lightningclaw. He wondered whether the young she-cat had stuck around their den, though the silence answered his question. He tentatively wondered what Lightningclaw was doing; the flash of brilliant red tabby and white flooded his head, a fluttering stomach as evidence, and he pushed the thought away. 

He grumbled, his eyelids cracking open but unbranded by any harsh light; the night sky hungrily swallowed the jungle trees and the mouth of the cave. Distant chatter reached his ears, a low hum louder than late-night bird melodies, cricket cries, or enthusiastic bellows of tireless kits. The second-to-last patrol must have arrived, Anispine guessed. Not too late, but a waning day nevertheless. A nap out the way, he might sleep until much later into the night. He cursed his ancestors; he dozed off, unexpectedly. A chilly day among many humid-warm days lulled him to sleep, like an opium poppy. His project, phantasms in his sleep, of dicing aloe laid forgotten across from his cocked head. He grumbled again, finally stirring and resting on his haunches, a yawn yanked out his maw. Anispine promised himself a quick snooze, but closing his eyes proved fatal. 

A platinum figure entered his periphery, and he glanced toward it. How long had it been there? Mortification swirled in his chest, a sheepish huff as he realized the figure to be a cat—Orchidbloom, a warrior, light-furred, true-blue. At his most vulnerable asleep, a natural world would have torn him to pieces. In his hierarchical milieu, perhaps he was impregnable; that didn’t mean a cat had to see him just out of sleep. Wincing, he dipped his head, standing to attention, lethargy still clinging to his eyelids. 

“Orchidbloom,” he prompted, in between an inquiry and statement. “Do you need anything?”