- Dec 27, 2022
- 348
- 49
- 28
It’s hard to believe that Gravelsnap has lived through another year. They have survived so much, including multiple battles with other clans, falling deathly ill, and even being driven from their clan’s territory twice now… the fact that they still live and breathe is a miracle. They may be an exile of the only clan they’ve ever known, they may have abandoned Bluefrost and Thriftfeather, and their father may be dead—but they still have Peri, they have Slatetooth, they have Houndthistle. They should be grateful for who they have left, even when everything else is gone. It’s just difficult, when things are so volatile, to hold onto hope that it will turn out alright.
The black-patched warrior spends a lot of time pacing around the barn, back and forth and back and forth across wood and straw until their paws are sore. Today, though, they’ve put their paws to better use; snow lies in a thick and dense coat on the ground, and snowdrifts pile up against their temporary home’s siding. The wintertime chill is only made worse by the ice beneath their paws, and their fur isn’t long or coarse enough to keep out the cold. They have an idea of what to do, though, and after a few moments of searching for a prime spot, they begin digging. By the time they’ve hollowed out a small den with enough space for a few cats to squeeze into, Gravelsnap’s paws have long gone numb.
They can only remember faintly the last time they had been in a snow-packed den such as this, but they recall Mallowlark telling tales of a monstrous creature. They also remember the thick pelts of Sunstride and Wolfsong curled together, radiating heat to keep both themselves and a much younger Gravelsnap warm. Of course, no one has yet joined them in this freshly-dug den, but it is still warmer inside than it is outside. The den is more comfortable a space than the wooden-walled structure they’ve been sleeping in since their escape from camp, anyway. "Like a bear," they murmur to themself, curling their thin tail around their paws in an attempt to retain warmth. Their shabby little den may be warmer than it is outside, but it’s still frigid as snow clings and melts against their thin pelt.
The black-patched warrior spends a lot of time pacing around the barn, back and forth and back and forth across wood and straw until their paws are sore. Today, though, they’ve put their paws to better use; snow lies in a thick and dense coat on the ground, and snowdrifts pile up against their temporary home’s siding. The wintertime chill is only made worse by the ice beneath their paws, and their fur isn’t long or coarse enough to keep out the cold. They have an idea of what to do, though, and after a few moments of searching for a prime spot, they begin digging. By the time they’ve hollowed out a small den with enough space for a few cats to squeeze into, Gravelsnap’s paws have long gone numb.
They can only remember faintly the last time they had been in a snow-packed den such as this, but they recall Mallowlark telling tales of a monstrous creature. They also remember the thick pelts of Sunstride and Wolfsong curled together, radiating heat to keep both themselves and a much younger Gravelsnap warm. Of course, no one has yet joined them in this freshly-dug den, but it is still warmer inside than it is outside. The den is more comfortable a space than the wooden-walled structure they’ve been sleeping in since their escape from camp, anyway. "Like a bear," they murmur to themself, curling their thin tail around their paws in an attempt to retain warmth. Their shabby little den may be warmer than it is outside, but it’s still frigid as snow clings and melts against their thin pelt.
[ you put the fun into dysfunction ]
