The Captain wrinkled his nose as he emerged from the scraggly bush in which he had set up his makeshift den to see yet another day where the the sky was shrouded in gray clouds that cast an inescapable gloom over patches of half-melted snow and frost and the muddy ground in between. He was beginning to regret returning to SwiftClan instead of finding somewhere else to wait out the winter months. Perhaps a gullible Twoleg? Kibble couldn’t compare to prey, but at least the furless beasts kept their nests warm. His bones were getting a little old for winters in the wild - but, he reminded himself with a brief shake of his dirty white pelt to dislodge a stray scrap of moss and fluff it up against the cold breeze, he had seen worse than this. Idly he wondered whether anybody had caught any prey yet and whether he looked old enough to argue that he should be fed at the same time as the elders. He could always develop a convenient limp by breakfast time.