- Aug 1, 2023
- 140
- 33
- 28
Once Moonbeam has deemed him free from his imprisonment, he seeks out Foxtail . . . belatedly, yes, more belatedly than he prefers his meager apologies to be; but the white - pelted medicine cat had given him enough hell for slinking out to talk to Lichenstar that he'd thought it better to lay low. Pale paws whisper over sand with surprising lightness for such a large cat, though his intent isn't to startle the chimera, who himself only stands a little below Cicadaflight's own towering stature. He's slightly hobbled, as an unruly pack mule, by the tenderness of the freshly ribbed and dusky pink scars on his forelegs, already beginning to be covered by shaggy curls; he navigates to the lead warrior in a quiet moment.
" Foxtail? A word? " he murmurs in a rasping greeting, hoarse - voiced by nature. He's found a certain . . . not a verbosity, for he'll never be the word - spun siren whose shadow he lives in, but a certain cadence, a respect, a politness ( he doesn't dare say an elegance ) granted to an uncouth tounge as of late. The weight of their shared ordeal? A reflexive opposite to his brutal brawl with the dog, a quick - snap denial of the taste of blood on his tongue, maybe? The conviction that madness could be acceptable when veneered with well - polished porcelain ( and where had he gotten such an idea )? He doesn't quite know, but he practies it all the same.
Upon the affirmative, he plants tufted white paws on the sand and settles himself a respectful distance from the tricolor tabby - and - white tom, lifting an elegantly curved wrist to scrape a paw over one ear. Ostensibly the intent is grooming, although really he's just trying to find yet another way to obfuscate his eyes and thus avoid meeting two - toned and olive. " Sorry for ordering you around—when, you know . . . " he mutters his apology, making an open - clawed swinging gesture meant to communicate the unspoken meaning of the dog thing. Respect is a value self - beaten into him, and he ducks his head under his paw to add, " I mean, you're a lead warrior, and I'm just a new warrior . . . I guess what I mean is it wasn't very respectful of me. "
" Foxtail? A word? " he murmurs in a rasping greeting, hoarse - voiced by nature. He's found a certain . . . not a verbosity, for he'll never be the word - spun siren whose shadow he lives in, but a certain cadence, a respect, a politness ( he doesn't dare say an elegance ) granted to an uncouth tounge as of late. The weight of their shared ordeal? A reflexive opposite to his brutal brawl with the dog, a quick - snap denial of the taste of blood on his tongue, maybe? The conviction that madness could be acceptable when veneered with well - polished porcelain ( and where had he gotten such an idea )? He doesn't quite know, but he practies it all the same.
Upon the affirmative, he plants tufted white paws on the sand and settles himself a respectful distance from the tricolor tabby - and - white tom, lifting an elegantly curved wrist to scrape a paw over one ear. Ostensibly the intent is grooming, although really he's just trying to find yet another way to obfuscate his eyes and thus avoid meeting two - toned and olive. " Sorry for ordering you around—when, you know . . . " he mutters his apology, making an open - clawed swinging gesture meant to communicate the unspoken meaning of the dog thing. Respect is a value self - beaten into him, and he ducks his head under his paw to add, " I mean, you're a lead warrior, and I'm just a new warrior . . . I guess what I mean is it wasn't very respectful of me. "
