Hoshor Plains But beware all those angels with their wings glued on

The continued disappearance of his brother was a very large source of worry for Acheron. Mother seemed worried and busy lately, and so he hadn't wanted to bother her with how he was feeling. So instead, he dealt with his anxious energy the way he usually did and took everything out on his current stick...only, he had chewed it completely down and now needed a new one. 

So this morning, he busied himself with trying to find just the right one, not deterred even a little but the thick blanket of snow that covered the territory. The plains didn't hold as many prospects as he had always found near the river, so it had been a difficult task. Acheron had searched through the territory most of the day until he narrowed his search down to three different sticks. All three were almost as long as he was and relatively thick, which were both important qualities since he wanted them to last as long as possible; searching for a new one was always such a project. He nosed the sticks around, comparing their weight and texture and trying to decide which one felt right. He was having trouble choosing, though, and he ended up plopping down in front of the pile and looking down at the sticks with a frustrated expression. He sat there for so long that a layer of snow collected in his fur, so he stood and shook it out, then sat back down to resume his silent consideration.