Thistlefall was not on any patrol. He wandered aimlessly, out of ideas on how to better serve the clan, having stocked the fresk-kill pile that evening and ensured the elder's had cool wet moss to drink from. He'd made himself useful and then, as quiet as ever, had slipped away from the camp without bothering to seek thanks or praise for fulfilling his warrior duties. He thought it might be better if no one knew who had done those things at all, but he supposed his scent would linger on the moss and in the puncture wounds on the mice he'd slain earlier, and he would be found out eventually. Maybe if he left fast enough, and stayed out in the forest for long enough, anyone who enjoyed the fruits of his labour would forget about whose scent they'd detected, and he would be allowed to curl up in his nest without any fuss.

Leaf-fall was coming in fast this year, changing the leaves and plucking them from the branches of the forest canopy almost over night. Thistlefall was a young tom, not well-versed in the turning of seasons after only having lived through eight of them, but he was still surprised by the amount of changes the forest and mountain had undergone in only half a moon. He hardly recognized the place anymore, roaming the territory in befuddled amazement, looking at the smears of colour in the trees and surprising himself with the crunch of leaves under his paws. Knowing that his time was his own once the clan had been looked after, he spent many afternoons and evenings meandering around, his long black ears perked up in interest as he studied the pretty leaves and solid grey skies. He was lost in a daze even now, not looking where he was going, his nose up in the air as he watched a maple leaf detach from a branch way up high and spiral down.

It was while he was distracted by the motion of the falling leaf that he felt himself bump into something small and warm, his paws stuttering in their stride as he was upended, his legs swept out from underneath him. He tumbled nearly completely over his head, his tail bristling out in shock as his stomach swooped low, panic overtaking him as he tried to figure out what in great StarClan was happening.

The lean black tom was entirely a mess after Hollywhisper managed to extract herself from his limbs, his thick ruff and part of the fur on his chest bent back against the grain, sticking up in all directions like an owl's feathers in a stiff wind. He blinked, hot shame boiling under his pelt as mortification set in, his vision overtaken with blazing green eyes belonging to an absolutely furious she-cat. His own clanmate, he recognized her as- he thought she might be called Hollysomething, something to do with water? No- and here he'd gone and run her over like a twoleg monster prowling through the trees. He backed away, still ruffled, making no attempt to neaten himself or try to save face by acting as if he'd intended to knock her to the ground as some sort of playful introduction. He hadn't wanted to be introduced- not to anyone. This was all going wrong.

"I'm sorry," he managed, letting her insult his intelligence twice without any pushback. It had been a featherbrained thing to do, walking into her like that, not paying attention to where he was going. "I'm sorry, I- there was a leaf, you see, and it was falling, so..." It all sounded very stupid to his own ears, and he trailed off, looking helpless and silly as he cowered in front of a cat much smaller than himself. "I'm sorry," he said again, dumbly, making every effort to be smaller, to sink into the ground and disappear.