- Dec 17, 2022
- 680
- 374
- 63
[ couldn't decide if this was worth a sensitive topic, but cw for cat bones! ]
The storm passes to obscurity. Once more the sky is a bright blue, cloudless and soft, and the sun's pale yellow gleam warms the still-wet ground. It is good to see that their camp had not drowned, the hollow a danger to them at times, but the rest of their territory seemed as if it was intended to soak up this storm. Mushy, soft ground, greenery that rises timidly towards the sky. Had they been flattened last night? He can hardly tell, now. That is for the best. Their moor is as resilient as they are. Gentle paws carry on with more care this time. So as he may not ruin the tender shoots. Even in the muddy patches they seem to thrive. Where rain has washed away slopes of dirt, carved rivulets, he watches ants trudge the difficult ground. Is this their gorge? How many have they lost to its roaring depths?
It is kitlike, to wonder after this. He thinks for a moment longer and then turns to continue his survey.
Not too long after is when he sees them return. A stream of insects, dark carapaces gleaming and still covered faintly with dew, in a few of them. Marching ever onward. Each one of his steps carves one of WindClan's camps before them and still they trek on. Thoughtlessly, Sunstar follows, until the stream climbs upwards over a grimy white. Dirt-covered. Rain-soaked. They crawl through a circular space and into the soft land of their den. It is when his eyes follow the entirety of the shape that his heart first drops.
The endless flow of ants slips through the eye socket of a skull, only half-buried in the mud. Its teeth are still fixed in place, though the lower jaw is either missing or buried. He recognizes the slope of its forehead; the curve of its fang. He sees it in Wolfsong's sleeping profile and his own kits' joy-filled faces. He sees it in himself, and in his clanmates. Before him sits a feline skull β clean, and surely old. But the sight itself is not what concerns him. It is that, in this terrible moment. . . he does not know to whom it belongs. A loyalist, carelessly buried? A rogue that had died upon their lands? Was it older than the very concept of this clan?
Did it matter? The ants still march into the safety of their home. It is all too easy to remember that he will one day become the same.
The storm passes to obscurity. Once more the sky is a bright blue, cloudless and soft, and the sun's pale yellow gleam warms the still-wet ground. It is good to see that their camp had not drowned, the hollow a danger to them at times, but the rest of their territory seemed as if it was intended to soak up this storm. Mushy, soft ground, greenery that rises timidly towards the sky. Had they been flattened last night? He can hardly tell, now. That is for the best. Their moor is as resilient as they are. Gentle paws carry on with more care this time. So as he may not ruin the tender shoots. Even in the muddy patches they seem to thrive. Where rain has washed away slopes of dirt, carved rivulets, he watches ants trudge the difficult ground. Is this their gorge? How many have they lost to its roaring depths?
It is kitlike, to wonder after this. He thinks for a moment longer and then turns to continue his survey.
Not too long after is when he sees them return. A stream of insects, dark carapaces gleaming and still covered faintly with dew, in a few of them. Marching ever onward. Each one of his steps carves one of WindClan's camps before them and still they trek on. Thoughtlessly, Sunstar follows, until the stream climbs upwards over a grimy white. Dirt-covered. Rain-soaked. They crawl through a circular space and into the soft land of their den. It is when his eyes follow the entirety of the shape that his heart first drops.
The endless flow of ants slips through the eye socket of a skull, only half-buried in the mud. Its teeth are still fixed in place, though the lower jaw is either missing or buried. He recognizes the slope of its forehead; the curve of its fang. He sees it in Wolfsong's sleeping profile and his own kits' joy-filled faces. He sees it in himself, and in his clanmates. Before him sits a feline skull β clean, and surely old. But the sight itself is not what concerns him. It is that, in this terrible moment. . . he does not know to whom it belongs. A loyalist, carelessly buried? A rogue that had died upon their lands? Was it older than the very concept of this clan?
Did it matter? The ants still march into the safety of their home. It is all too easy to remember that he will one day become the same.
π πππ ππππ ππππ ππ πππππππ β±
( ππππ π πππ πππ ) γ 06.17 γ
πα¨
- ooc: β
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β πππππππ.βββ±ββAMABββHE - HIM - HIS.ββLEADER OF WINDCLAN.β ββββββββββββββΜ΄ΜΝΝΜ»ββΜ΅ΜΜΏΝΜΝΜΌΝ βΜΆΝΜΜ¬
ββββββa rogue brought to windclan in a search for greatness, one of sootstar's most loyal warriors turned into her downfall. with a mate and kits to worry about, and now nine lives from starclan with a missing limb, windclan's leader has a lot to prove.
a large chocolate and white rosette tom with seaglass eyes. the first thing many see when looking at sunstar now is not his proud posture or un-windclan build, but the scarred stump that remains of his front left leg. a wound that would have killed most other cats took one of his lives; not even starclan could repair it.
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