It wasn't often he got a moment to himself. There was always work to do, always some chump to rough up, some coin to snatch and pocket. It wasn't a bad gig. And if he wasn't any good at it, he wouldn't be doing it. There were other vocations he could do equally well in. But he wasn't interested in being a horse farrier or fixing plows or feeding cattle. That was slave's work. Tending to ground that was never yours, working your life away, it was the same as any other bondage.
And this was his life to live.
The charcoal scratched at the paper in his journal. It was creased, from being folded over time and again. But his lines were clear, easy to discern even when they ran over the folded sections. He sketched the Grand Arch to the ruins where the Mountain Cats prowled. He preferred to draw animals, and he busied himself with sketching away at the owl that was perched across from him, atop the Arch. The owl watched him and remained stone still as if he knew he was being drawn and chose a pose to express it.
Crowe grinned at that thought, exchanging glances with the bird and coursing the line that led down to flecked wingtips. The horns were next, followed by the eyes and he shaded them gently, looking out toward the bird, as his hand did the drawing, as if by heart. He grinned again and looked down at his work, etching in the blocks of the Grand Arch and the roots and the moss that grew from it.
The journal rested on his thigh, as he sat relaxed, perched within the arms of a tall tree. He could see for miles being up there, and it was the best place in the world to find his solitude. The Post had lots of hidden nooks and crannies, but the other Cats had their own hiding places. This was his.
Crowe looked back at the owl once again, when something cracked on the ground below and the creature ruffled his feathers and flew off. "Shit," he muttered, frowning, as he watched the bird fly off and peered down at what made the noise.
He watched the blonde-haired fellow below him. And quietly he pulled a throwing knife from his thigh. It was small, sleek and slender and he held his breath as he watched the snake slither through the water, coming up from around the bushes toward his ankle. And the knife was loosed. A silver flash would have swished in front of Khanna and down to the snake in the grass below, where the creature remained, devoid of its head.