- Jan 1, 2023
- 313
- 182
- 43
Rhythmic motions sounded faint against the chatter of the day, as though a knell from a land afar, though not nearly as mighty nor stentorian as the great bell of war. It was merely a dull clash that would make the ears work to find it amongst rivers of undertones, an unnoticable glimmer of silver against the sun-striped waters. The scene proved inglorious, ordinary, and even wearisome in its tedium. One wad of bedding, two wads of bedding, three now. Chrysalispaw had started the count over when he reached three, but even he had lost track of how many repetitions there had been. One, two... Wait, was he even on the second one? Disgruntled rumblings spilled from the apprentice's mouth, a commonplace drone from the feline who found no solace in boring tasks such as this, like the low growls of the impending thunderstorm. It wrested upon the horizon, yet never intruded farther than the boundary scrawled upon the sky. It was the same for Chrys - he never vocalized his complaints aloud, lest he get even more assignments to do.
The harsh thwack against his head still throbbed, and the juvenile had rubbed one paw against the abrasion, with each touch sending pulses of pain through his head. He winced, though kept poking at it as if that would, somehow, make it heal faster. Chrysalispaw only hoped it would heal sooner than later. What would not dwindle so easily were the harsh words that rolled from Silversmoke's mouth, though the scalding scolds were nothing new to him, as though he had walked through the fire of adults' tongues many times before. Those who claimed to be more mature than the younger steed were always those lacking the composure to truly dignify it, he found. His father was the same way - a man with verses dripping in poison, a cat who kept his daggers closer to his hands than his jewels. He wasn't inclined to take advice from anyone who even slightly reminded him of Dragonflywing. He remembered Silver's words about how he 'disrespected Figpaw's injuries' and 'how she's trying her best.' Well, what's wrong with being honest? Better than living her life in a lie, he reasoned with futility. Just because she didn't want to hear it didn't make it untrue.
He tore at strands of old bedding, groaning as discolored strings clung to his claws, like ribbons of filth and folly. He shook it off with a frantic wave of his paw. The apprentice turned his back to the glowering sun, casting his face into the shadows of the sett, as though painting himself in the dreary colors that leaf-bare had left in its wake. As the season rippled onwards, he noticed himself growing more and more tolerant of the winter - or, at least, more apathetic to it. Chrys noted that the snowdrift had been lighter this week, as if the cruel weather had lightened its grip just a bit, and fingers once curled and cobbled now loosened itself. Well, he wouldn't even be able to enjoy it to the fullest if he were cooped up with the old coots and loons.
The harsh thwack against his head still throbbed, and the juvenile had rubbed one paw against the abrasion, with each touch sending pulses of pain through his head. He winced, though kept poking at it as if that would, somehow, make it heal faster. Chrysalispaw only hoped it would heal sooner than later. What would not dwindle so easily were the harsh words that rolled from Silversmoke's mouth, though the scalding scolds were nothing new to him, as though he had walked through the fire of adults' tongues many times before. Those who claimed to be more mature than the younger steed were always those lacking the composure to truly dignify it, he found. His father was the same way - a man with verses dripping in poison, a cat who kept his daggers closer to his hands than his jewels. He wasn't inclined to take advice from anyone who even slightly reminded him of Dragonflywing. He remembered Silver's words about how he 'disrespected Figpaw's injuries' and 'how she's trying her best.' Well, what's wrong with being honest? Better than living her life in a lie, he reasoned with futility. Just because she didn't want to hear it didn't make it untrue.
He tore at strands of old bedding, groaning as discolored strings clung to his claws, like ribbons of filth and folly. He shook it off with a frantic wave of his paw. The apprentice turned his back to the glowering sun, casting his face into the shadows of the sett, as though painting himself in the dreary colors that leaf-bare had left in its wake. As the season rippled onwards, he noticed himself growing more and more tolerant of the winter - or, at least, more apathetic to it. Chrys noted that the snowdrift had been lighter this week, as if the cruel weather had lightened its grip just a bit, and fingers once curled and cobbled now loosened itself. Well, he wouldn't even be able to enjoy it to the fullest if he were cooped up with the old coots and loons.