Angier Lyall's timing could not have been more terrible. He had overslept, ate the chipmunks that served as his breakfast and lunch on the go, and had arrived at the river fork south of where he knew Heartleaf Creek began. Pale gold eyes desperately searched the running water for signs of aquatic life. Every glimmer of the sun and shifting of the tree branches had his hopes soaring to unimaginable heights only to crash back down to earth. A first attempt had his jowls clasped onto a floating stick; a second had him hastily plunging his head into a dark river rock instead of a small cavity where he had initially thought a catfish could have been hiding.

"Damn it," he cursed to himself under his breath as he waded the shallows just beyond the riverbanks. He was running out of patience and he still had yet to bring Lady @Elettra a serving of fish. In the days since the meeting, he trotted about the borders and once he was through with his patrol, spent the evening hours scouring the snake-like streams for something edible. Today, he hoped, would be a different story; and, instead, of marching along to and from his superiors' markers, he abandoned Willow Ridge altogether in search of a suitable fishing place. It was just too bad he had not woken up earlier - now he had to spend his energy looking for hiding places instead of waiting for ripples to occur in places where the river smoothed out into small pools and nooks between boulders.

The Lyall swore again with a growl, lifting his tail above the water's surface as he strained to keep his head above water while he half-walked, half-swam towards the opposite shore, Sacred Grove territory. With a huff, he strode out of the water and shook out his coat with a weary sigh. For the past hour or so he had tried to fish without any luck whatsoever. He frowned to himself as he took a seat on the silt and smooth pebbles that made up the bank. Perhaps he should have declared himself an official scout or guard... or something... It couldn't have been clearer in this very moment that Angier Lyall, a self-proclaimed jack-of-all-trades, was indeed a failure in the art of fishing. If only he had known any better, he could have traveled a little further and tried his luck in looking for migrating salmon. His decision to stay put, take a break, and begrudgingly judge himself over the fact that he hadn't completed a task for his dark-furred monarch proved that the Willow Ridge subordinate's head was truly elsewhere instead of the task at hand.