Curlfeather slipped out of camp, carefully holding the rotten fish in her jaws. The Greenleaf sun was ruthless, prey that wasn't already dead from the hot waters turned spoiled within by the time it was in the prey-pile,: Curlfeather was the one to toss out the diseased prey. As she made it to the small hole she'd dug to hide the prey in, she stopped: swiftly turning around and setting down the prey. She'd scented.. something. Someone. She sniffed the air, jerking towards you, behind a bush.