- Jan 1, 2023
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Chrysaliswing felt as though he had wasted his warriorhood, if there was any honor to waste. Perhaps the tom had wasted his entire life, but he figured that that frivolity could only be attributed to those who had some sort of higher ideal that the knew they could be. The warrior had no such ideal. In this moment, all that he could be was all that he was. He pondered, over the moons, if that was what true despair was like - not rock bottom in which one could still see the light at the end of the rabbit den, in which one could still hope to claw their way out, but rather than numbing limbo like a winter's warmth.
The wildfire-and-smolder chimaera watched as sickness grappled with the clan's way of life, as though it were the only thing he could do, the owl trapped upon its vice as it watched the night overtake below. Chrysalis had always thought of birds as creatures with the ultimate freedom, with the empyrean trailing along proud wingtips, like they dipped their fingers and dragged it slowly along the milky sea of the sky. Now he was not so sure anymore, and he hadn't been sure of anything for a while. They were weak things, with fragile bones snapped with the slightest touch of the teeth and feathers plucked with the slightest brush of the gale. He had seen a one-winged bird once and promptly put it out of its misery, though on closer inspection, only one of its wingbones had been bent. Like the bird, it only took a single fracture to sow chaos through the clans. The clans were healing, but he knew that all the eyes of the forest clamored and drank them in as if they were waiting in suspense for the next chapter. (This was a novel that he would rather be relaying than living.)
The medicine cats had gifted that fracture a terrible name: 'yellowcough.' That moniker itself had sent shivers down his clanmate's spines, a brutal and brumal roll of the tongue. A wretched and wrested name that did not come easy to speech, though Chrys figured that was the point of it. It was not meant to grant kindness nor impart an innuendo. He remembered (as it was still fresh in his memory, like a just-inflicted wound that caked his pelage in sanguine and vermillions) how had driven them away from the only home he had ever known. Fear was not something he admitted to easily, for it shook one to their very core like a tempered bluster and left them nothing but a husk. But he was scared that time, and he had been scared many other times.
Herding into Shadowclan's marsh - unbecoming of any safe haven or sanctuary - had only made his eyes grow dimmer like dying coals, as the fire bowed its head and folded its arms in, accepting a momentary and fleeting fate. He had not died then, though, and his flame only grew prolonged and as a muster rather than a spittle, a hesitant breath rather than the prideful blow. It had only made his pitch pelt sag into the deepest shade, as if his home had truly been with the swampland shadows all along, not capturing but rather resting into his wrinkles and furrows. He had accepted it after a long moon of anticipation in the form of low rumbles from the gut. It had not made his tongue hunger for blood but rather grow weary of it, and had not made his teeth sharped but rather sheathed behind the lips so zealous to show what was behind them.
Chrysalis pawed at a skimpy mouse he had found at the bottom of the prey pile - it was the only thing he could find after spending his days hunting for Skyclan. He still had a modicum of dignity, so he left the plumper and richer prey for the kits and the queens and the elders. With one claw, he upturned the rodent to reveal a grey belly patched in fields of buttermilk flesh. He resigned to eating it until a somewhat sharp pain had blazed through his tail, which was more of a throb than a sting. Still, a feather-plumed tail quickly returned to the warm flank, as though recoiling in dramathurgical pain. "Watch it, feather-brain." He hissed, voice still curdled with venom though with fangs less eager to bite than in his adolescence, for even the adder tired at dusk.
The wildfire-and-smolder chimaera watched as sickness grappled with the clan's way of life, as though it were the only thing he could do, the owl trapped upon its vice as it watched the night overtake below. Chrysalis had always thought of birds as creatures with the ultimate freedom, with the empyrean trailing along proud wingtips, like they dipped their fingers and dragged it slowly along the milky sea of the sky. Now he was not so sure anymore, and he hadn't been sure of anything for a while. They were weak things, with fragile bones snapped with the slightest touch of the teeth and feathers plucked with the slightest brush of the gale. He had seen a one-winged bird once and promptly put it out of its misery, though on closer inspection, only one of its wingbones had been bent. Like the bird, it only took a single fracture to sow chaos through the clans. The clans were healing, but he knew that all the eyes of the forest clamored and drank them in as if they were waiting in suspense for the next chapter. (This was a novel that he would rather be relaying than living.)
The medicine cats had gifted that fracture a terrible name: 'yellowcough.' That moniker itself had sent shivers down his clanmate's spines, a brutal and brumal roll of the tongue. A wretched and wrested name that did not come easy to speech, though Chrys figured that was the point of it. It was not meant to grant kindness nor impart an innuendo. He remembered (as it was still fresh in his memory, like a just-inflicted wound that caked his pelage in sanguine and vermillions) how had driven them away from the only home he had ever known. Fear was not something he admitted to easily, for it shook one to their very core like a tempered bluster and left them nothing but a husk. But he was scared that time, and he had been scared many other times.
Herding into Shadowclan's marsh - unbecoming of any safe haven or sanctuary - had only made his eyes grow dimmer like dying coals, as the fire bowed its head and folded its arms in, accepting a momentary and fleeting fate. He had not died then, though, and his flame only grew prolonged and as a muster rather than a spittle, a hesitant breath rather than the prideful blow. It had only made his pitch pelt sag into the deepest shade, as if his home had truly been with the swampland shadows all along, not capturing but rather resting into his wrinkles and furrows. He had accepted it after a long moon of anticipation in the form of low rumbles from the gut. It had not made his tongue hunger for blood but rather grow weary of it, and had not made his teeth sharped but rather sheathed behind the lips so zealous to show what was behind them.
Chrysalis pawed at a skimpy mouse he had found at the bottom of the prey pile - it was the only thing he could find after spending his days hunting for Skyclan. He still had a modicum of dignity, so he left the plumper and richer prey for the kits and the queens and the elders. With one claw, he upturned the rodent to reveal a grey belly patched in fields of buttermilk flesh. He resigned to eating it until a somewhat sharp pain had blazed through his tail, which was more of a throb than a sting. Still, a feather-plumed tail quickly returned to the warm flank, as though recoiling in dramathurgical pain. "Watch it, feather-brain." He hissed, voice still curdled with venom though with fangs less eager to bite than in his adolescence, for even the adder tired at dusk.
