- Jan 11, 2023
- 61
- 22
- 8
Lambcurl does not have much company here. For that, he should be grateful, that the sickness that grasped SkyClan with sharp talons has but a kitten's hold on WindClan, in comparison. He does not mind that he is one of the few it has trapped. He has never minded things like that.
When he had first stuck his head out from the barn, he had seen the stars, and he had known that he would die for them. He had been misguided for all the time before. Tucked somewhere the stars could not find him, he had curled up in fear at night – afraid of the dark; left with no tail to cover his nose, only having his own paws, and the other cats that did not quite understand him.
That is not to say that they should have. Even now, he has failed to ever find that outside of moments that were fleeting. A wide smile with too many teeth, other pelts caked in dirt – his friends that he could find smiles in. It was never quite perfect, though. And that was quite fine. The earth and the stars brought him solace that no soul ever quite could. Whatever life he lived would be enough, as long as he had them. If the stars shined kindest over WindClan, then WindClan is what he should be. All he has ever wanted is to be good.
He is satisfied, and yet not at all, that sickness has gripped him so quickly. He had always wanted to die for good reason, so that stones and shiny things would be dropped at his grave, and he could listen kindly to those prayers; know that there is someone whom he had helped.
Who was he helping, like this?
By bringing the sickness elsewhere to die, he figures. If he could, he would put all of the worlds illness unto himself, so that he would take it down with him. That was not how it worked, though. No, it was not.
It would be difficult for him to fit within his sleep. When his mind is kindly numbed and his body too tired to do very much at all. It would be just as much of a lie to say it was fitful, as it would be to say that it was not at all. He has lived a good life, hasn't he? But what did that mean, if his loss suited no one else at all? Must he dream instead, of the maggots that would worm their way into his flesh? Of those in the future who may find his bones deep in the soil?
With his breath then, he sighs his only regret out into dawn. At least the earth would cradle him kindly, he thinks.
When he had first stuck his head out from the barn, he had seen the stars, and he had known that he would die for them. He had been misguided for all the time before. Tucked somewhere the stars could not find him, he had curled up in fear at night – afraid of the dark; left with no tail to cover his nose, only having his own paws, and the other cats that did not quite understand him.
That is not to say that they should have. Even now, he has failed to ever find that outside of moments that were fleeting. A wide smile with too many teeth, other pelts caked in dirt – his friends that he could find smiles in. It was never quite perfect, though. And that was quite fine. The earth and the stars brought him solace that no soul ever quite could. Whatever life he lived would be enough, as long as he had them. If the stars shined kindest over WindClan, then WindClan is what he should be. All he has ever wanted is to be good.
He is satisfied, and yet not at all, that sickness has gripped him so quickly. He had always wanted to die for good reason, so that stones and shiny things would be dropped at his grave, and he could listen kindly to those prayers; know that there is someone whom he had helped.
Who was he helping, like this?
By bringing the sickness elsewhere to die, he figures. If he could, he would put all of the worlds illness unto himself, so that he would take it down with him. That was not how it worked, though. No, it was not.
It would be difficult for him to fit within his sleep. When his mind is kindly numbed and his body too tired to do very much at all. It would be just as much of a lie to say it was fitful, as it would be to say that it was not at all. He has lived a good life, hasn't he? But what did that mean, if his loss suited no one else at all? Must he dream instead, of the maggots that would worm their way into his flesh? Of those in the future who may find his bones deep in the soil?
With his breath then, he sighs his only regret out into dawn. At least the earth would cradle him kindly, he thinks.
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OOC: he passed in his sleep within the abandoned badger set :')
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LAMBCURL: HE / HIM , CISGENDER MALE ; GAY & SINGLE, IN LOVE WITH EVERYBODY ; TUNNELER OF WINDCLAN ; 45
tiny, curly - furred albino tom with teary pink eyes. ; dreamy – eyed and dreamy – minded, Lambcurl drags himself across the land with an ever-present smile and glassy bug eyes. Deeply honored to hold his position as a tunneler and whisperingly reverent with everything he does. Somewhat unnerving in ideals and the way he speaks, but he means well.
