Cavernpelt.
The Dawn Patrol had left the den earlier, Cavernpelt had been aware of it, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. As the sunlight grew stronger, and began filtering through the branches of the bramble-encircled den, Cavernpelt found himself staring up at the branches, half on his side, and half on his back, front paws limp against his chest. There was a pebble that had been pulled to an angle beneath the moss and feathers of his nest, and it was digging into his shoulder. The tom was unable to lull himself back to sleep, and with that revelation, Cavernpelt sprung up from his nest, and as quietly as he could, darted from the den.

He burst through the opening in the brambles, a few loose tendrils tugging at his thick coat. The tom stopped a little way out of the den, and turned his face toward the sky, closing his eyes as he did. Heaving a sigh, the tom turned his head first one way, and then the next, creating a series of pops that radiated out to touch the base of his skull, and the tops of his shoulders. A luxurious stretch that had been delayed volleyed the cracks down his spine, all the way to his tail. With a quiet gush of wind from his slightly parted maw.

Cavernpelt’s eyes opened wide, casting a glance around the camp before he suddenly began moving, trotting across the Galeclan camp, to the camp’s exit. He burst out of the bramble thicket, and found himself walking a little way down along the edge of the stream. The tom stopped, taking a seat on a rock that was already being warmed by the sun. He took a moment, reflecting inward until he heard the sound of an approach.

He turned his head, looking toward the source of the sound.