- Jan 15, 2023
- 600
- 163
- 43
༄༄ The day is bright, the sun perched at its peak in the sky overhead, but the wind blows icy across the moorland. It cuts through the camp like frostbitten claws, its chill penetrating even Scorchstreak’s coarse coat of fur. There are still tasks to be done as the clan rebuilds its camp—but there is something that the calico feels as though they must do now. They have made their rounds and checked up on every soul in the clan, it seems, except for their daughter.
It feels as though it was just yesterday that Scorchkit toddled about in the nursery, tiny paws tripping over nothing. Now, Scorchpaw stands taller than Scorchstreak herself, the tunneler realizes with a mildly-indignant huff. Her only daughter is all grown up now, overdue for her warrior name, and that thought fills her heart with something sharp. She approaches Scorchpaw with a warm, gentle smile—something softer than she’s ever cast upon any of her kits. "You’ve grown so tall." Just like your father. It aches, just a bit, to think of how much Scorchpaw resembles Badgermoon. Scorchstreak’s own feelings for the tom had gone no further than friendship, but his loss had struck her just as deeply as a mate’s would have. He had been the father of her kits, after all; he had given her one of the greatest gifts of all. (And still she had found a way to squander it, she thinks, as Rumblerain’s retreating form flashes in her mind.)
Her expression turns pained for a heartbeat, hardly visible, but she forces the twist of her muzzle back into a line. She did not come here to see her wayward kit in everything. She came here to speak to her daughter, to offer connection—and to keep both their battling skills from growing dulled after such a great success. "Would you care to spar with me? If Wolfsong has cleared you to fight, that is." She will not go against the golden-furred medicine cat’s orders—especially not when it is their care that has helped to patch Scorchpaw’s wounds.
// pls wait for @SCORCHPAW
It feels as though it was just yesterday that Scorchkit toddled about in the nursery, tiny paws tripping over nothing. Now, Scorchpaw stands taller than Scorchstreak herself, the tunneler realizes with a mildly-indignant huff. Her only daughter is all grown up now, overdue for her warrior name, and that thought fills her heart with something sharp. She approaches Scorchpaw with a warm, gentle smile—something softer than she’s ever cast upon any of her kits. "You’ve grown so tall." Just like your father. It aches, just a bit, to think of how much Scorchpaw resembles Badgermoon. Scorchstreak’s own feelings for the tom had gone no further than friendship, but his loss had struck her just as deeply as a mate’s would have. He had been the father of her kits, after all; he had given her one of the greatest gifts of all. (And still she had found a way to squander it, she thinks, as Rumblerain’s retreating form flashes in her mind.)
Her expression turns pained for a heartbeat, hardly visible, but she forces the twist of her muzzle back into a line. She did not come here to see her wayward kit in everything. She came here to speak to her daughter, to offer connection—and to keep both their battling skills from growing dulled after such a great success. "Would you care to spar with me? If Wolfsong has cleared you to fight, that is." She will not go against the golden-furred medicine cat’s orders—especially not when it is their care that has helped to patch Scorchpaw’s wounds.
// pls wait for @SCORCHPAW