private ⊹˚₊ It's the little things that kill ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ Sedgepounce ₊˚⊹

[Wraithwail]

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋅ Wraithwail couldn't stand the cold season, it was no secret to those who knew her even just on a surface level. She was vocal about her disdain for the chill, the way it swept away the beauty of moorland life under its suffocating blanket of powdered ivory that fell from the sky in endless whirlwinds of dust. Perhaps she could have appreciated the beauty of it had it not been for the fact it caused her fragile bones to ache, the way the chill feasted upon her paper-thin skin under silken tufts of wavy fur that collected the Leafbare melt and bogged her down all the more. Awakening every morning to all these things which would only worsen in the coming moons was arguably a bigger struggle than coming in and out of camp in an endless cycle to ensure they'd have enough resources collected for the heart of winter where their lives would surely be on the line. Oh, she could hardly bear it, a frown often settled heavily upon a typically tender face in recent days.

This expression would crease all the further, her perpetually exhausted eyes shadowed by irritation and...sorrow. The reasoning behind this seemed to be such a simple thing, so simple in fact it was almost unfathomable as to why she would have such an intense reaction to it in the first place. The marigolds nestled comfortably within the wispy strands of her plumy tail had begun to wilt, their once vibrant petals that glowed with the hue of burning flames having been doused by the unforgiving weather. She had been plucking them out for some time now, settled in a stiff and twisted heap in a hidden corner of camp, allowing her ghostly figure to be shrouded in the abyssal confines that hid her gangly frame away from any prying eyes.

The process was hesitant and slow, painfully so- it was as if every grasp of her serrated fangs that came into contact with once plush petals now turned crunchy and brittle caused her some level of physical pain- and so it was quite some time before she finally laid the final flower to rest at her spindly paws. Her eyes seemed to mist over as she peered down at the multitude of accumulated flora, the majority of them having been reduced to scattered pieces broken apart by the most gentle of touch due to having been dried by the violent air. How hideous she felt without the ability to leech off of their external and materialistic beauty, for the beauty of nature and all that it provided was something Wraithwail could surely never match on her own.

With painstaking hesitance, her final act would be to conceal the marigolds that had once been the reason for her feigned confidence and comfort, plowing piles of snow over them until not a trace of them remained. Forgotten and hidden away as if they had never existed in the first place, as she would eventually do herself. As all things would surely do, in time. With an exhale like a whisper carried on the wings of gentle winds, Wraithwail allowed her long tail to curl around her like a blanket, attempting to hide her boney body that she couldn't even stand to see herself, much less allow others to see. Her head would rest heavily atop her dainty paws, her hollowed eyes all the more corpse-like as any semblance of emotion or coherence dissipated from her face.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎┌── MISTRESS OF GRIEF ༄˖°.🕯️.ೃ࿔*:･ LADY OF TEARS ──┐‎

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  @SEDGEPOUNCE sorry for the wait <3
  

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  WRAITHWAIL she/her, warrior of windclan, 18 moons.
  ⭃ tall, longhaired white she-cat with hollow olive eyes.
  ⭃ important relationships on this line / / family, mate, apprentice, kids, whateva! [tbd]
  ⭃ peaceful, healing and minor combative powerplay permitted / / underline and tag when attacking
  ↛ see battle info here
  ⭃ penned by sloane ↛ @encarcerated on discord, feel free to dm for plots.
  

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[SEDGEPOUNCE]

Sedgepounce was a Leafbare kit. He's always secretly liked to think that it's made him more equipped for the tough weather—as though his most fragile months of his life curled up in the warm, safe shell of the nursery grizzled him somehow. It's always been wishful thinking. Sedgeponce is just as susceptible to the aching cold as any other cat. He shivers and sniffles through the day, seeks solace in the warm flanks of his fellow warriors at night. The wind whips at him and he suffers for it; but he does, if nothing else, know how to clench his jaw and bear it. Keeping busy helps the most. If there's a border to be patrolled or a mouse to be caught, he'll do it. Anything's better than wasting around in the cold.

He finds Wraithwail in one of his rare, listless moments of freedom. Her wispy pelt blends into the frosty vestiges of camp, but her hollow green eyes peek out from the fray. He's not...unfamiliar with her more cynical inclinations. Wraithwail is the type to drown in misery—knowing that doesn't make it any easier to see.

"Uh. Hey, Wraithwail," Sedgepounce greets, padding close to the languid molly. "What's the matter?" His voice is gentle, sympathetic, though he's half-certain that she'll just tell him to buzz off.
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