- Mar 14, 2024
- 142
- 14
- 18
I've noticed something kind of strange about the clan cats, even though none of them act like it is. For cats who fight for their survival every day, they sure do place a lot of importance on the dead. Like, I remember one time I was on a patrol a few moons ago, and we saw a bunch of dead rabbits. Bones and everything. It was pretty bad, and I thought we were just going to leave them for a coyote to eat or something. That's what I would have done. But they took the rabbits down to a nice place, set them down in a hole that they dug, and buried them like they were our own! That's so weird! I don't go around mourning every single piece of prey I eat. Like, yeah, they probably had families and stuff... But it's just life. They're just food. I think I remember something, though, from the Warrior Code. 'Prey is eaten only to be killed.' Wait, I totally messed that up. But there was another part to it, I'm pretty sure, about giving thanks to Starclan. Does prey join Starclan, too? That's a little silly... I feel like there'd be so many mice up there. I think they'd be mad at me for eating them. Sorry! I was really hungry!
Celandinepaw treaded slowly along the scattered stones of the Graveyard, as though eat had been carved and carefully set by the reverent lapidaries of the moors, sparse yet significant upon the flat terrain of the moorlands. Lagging clouds draped themselves upon the vast canvas of the welkin, so much so that they had almost blotted out the entire sky's worth of bluish hue. Despite the warnings of an approaching storm, there was no rain to droop upon the tongue nor gale to play roughly at the whiskers. It was only a stilled air, a venerating sort, that accompanied Windclan today. "You guys really care a lot about the dead, huh?" She mewed to Gravepaw, though Celandinepaw's wheat-hued gaze did not rustle upon the rather unsettling Gravepaw's pelt, as though her eyes bestrewed themselves upon each marker of the sacred. The spotted tabby had stopped at one particular stone marker, though she hadn't the slightest clue who it belonged to or what the rock could have signified. "If I die here, would I be buried the same as the rest of you?" A grim question that did not befit such a cheery curiosity, inappropriate for the niceties of the grieving. This place had a sort of uneasy air to it, as though meager winds diffused like powder upon the mortar, ground and beaten into bowed submission. The Horseplace cats did no such burials nor had they ever prayed for their deceased kin. Death was as easy as never waking up after one night, then allowing one's limp body to be taken away by the workfolk in the morning. It was painless, succinct, never minding the saccharine sentiments that seemed to cling to each breath of Windclan's cats.
Celandinepaw treaded slowly along the scattered stones of the Graveyard, as though eat had been carved and carefully set by the reverent lapidaries of the moors, sparse yet significant upon the flat terrain of the moorlands. Lagging clouds draped themselves upon the vast canvas of the welkin, so much so that they had almost blotted out the entire sky's worth of bluish hue. Despite the warnings of an approaching storm, there was no rain to droop upon the tongue nor gale to play roughly at the whiskers. It was only a stilled air, a venerating sort, that accompanied Windclan today. "You guys really care a lot about the dead, huh?" She mewed to Gravepaw, though Celandinepaw's wheat-hued gaze did not rustle upon the rather unsettling Gravepaw's pelt, as though her eyes bestrewed themselves upon each marker of the sacred. The spotted tabby had stopped at one particular stone marker, though she hadn't the slightest clue who it belonged to or what the rock could have signified. "If I die here, would I be buried the same as the rest of you?" A grim question that did not befit such a cheery curiosity, inappropriate for the niceties of the grieving. This place had a sort of uneasy air to it, as though meager winds diffused like powder upon the mortar, ground and beaten into bowed submission. The Horseplace cats did no such burials nor had they ever prayed for their deceased kin. Death was as easy as never waking up after one night, then allowing one's limp body to be taken away by the workfolk in the morning. It was painless, succinct, never minding the saccharine sentiments that seemed to cling to each breath of Windclan's cats.
