- Feb 21, 2024
- 26
- 3
- 3
It's a lazy summer afternoon, late in the day . . . that awkward spot where the sun no longer reigns quite so high, illuminating the marsh's ugliness in stark relief, but the warmed blue air has yet to cool with the onset of dusk. Cicadasong reverberates through the territory, winding its way around trees and through thick mud, its almost irritatingly reedy melody an apt soundtrack for the muck - drenched life of ShadowClanners made newly miserable in the humid heat of the summer.
Mockingbirdcry herself is no exception . . . her pale pelt is a minor mitigation of the heat, an effect negated in triplicate by its fluffy density. What is undoubtedly a virtue in the coldest leaf - bare days is nothing but a hassle now, the mud - flecked and windblown mound of gold - lilac fur piled up behind her, ten faux eyes staring out from its fluff, a testament to that fact. Tufted ears flick and flutter this way and that to dispel the lingering flies that greenleaf has brought back with a vengeance, feathered paws planted solidly in the mud as Mockingbirdcry leans forward on them, utterly focused.
A heavily lashed brown eye occasionally flicks towards the roving pack of kittens at play, but she worries little . . . Moltface watches over the day's charges at a distance, and more than she'd like a rest from her queenly duties, she does not doubt the chimeric cat would also prefer a break from her rambling. Can she be blamed, though? The most recent Gathering had been a fiasco of legendary proportions, its political ripples felt across the land as surely as the sun falls each day. Not for the first time, the lilac torbie curses her own preference for avoiding the Gatherings . . . she's pestered Moltface for gossip endlessly since, and talked the issue over until the other queens were no doubt sick of it, but nothing can truly replace being present as the clouds obscured the moon.
" And then . . . " a starting mew trickles off into half - coherent mumblings to herself, delicate shell - white claw tracing patterns in the crumbly and temporarily dried mud . . . for this brief time, her etchings would not immediately revert to gloop, and she plans to take full advantage of it. A russet - marbled stone marks WindClan's leader, a white - shot one their own, three more of varying shades placed with equal consideration . . . a smattering of other rocks, lilac, golden, blue, signify the other major players, what some might consider a brazen move given some of the aforementioned cats resided in this very camp.
Her careful claw marks the connections between each in thin lines, teasing out a tangled pattern largely incomprehensible to the average observer. Her heavy tail flicks a swathe through the mud, the only expression of her fascination from a body otherwise held carefully still so as not to spoil her work. WindClan was nearly two moons returned to their territory, and still they encroached upon that of others . . . and while Chilledstar had expressed their opinions in no uncertain terms with an open - pawed slap, Lilacfur doubly so, she remains relatively in the dark on the finer nuances of the issue . . . how had Lichenstar replied, she wonders? Did the two Clans not actively embroiled in the issue have any thoughts, or was their silence perhaps owed to their own problems as yet unknown?
Mockingbirdcry lets her breath out in an irritable huff, heavy tail slapping the gelatinous earth of camp. So many variables, and so many of them unknown to her! Presuming she had no kit in need of incessant coddling next Gathering—and the lilac torbie is known to raise independent children—she might have to break her seasons - long absence and attend, if only to see the aftershocks of the last and perhaps ferret out some details of the other Clans' standings in a newly shifted political landscape. A gilt - crowned white muzzle downturns with evident frustration . . . it's nearly impossible to fully consider the scope of the issue without a firstpaw account, not that she'd be so willing to encroach on an attendee's time.
She's seriously contemplating pestering Moltface for any news on the half moon - aged issue once more when the heavy rhythmic thump of a Clanmate's paws becomes evident. Feathered ears flick upright and chestnut - dark eyes widen in unexpected pleasure. Their deputy would be an excellent source, and perhaps she could hear Smogmaw's insights on the complicated dynamics crowning the Great Rock, him being a firstpaw witness and heir to such a tangled web. Her desire for information immediately outweighs her reluctance to bother, and her heavy tail flicks in tandem with a low - voiced mew summoning the deputy over to where she sits before her incomplete diagram. " Smogmaw! You were at the last Gathering, I presume? "
Mockingbirdcry herself is no exception . . . her pale pelt is a minor mitigation of the heat, an effect negated in triplicate by its fluffy density. What is undoubtedly a virtue in the coldest leaf - bare days is nothing but a hassle now, the mud - flecked and windblown mound of gold - lilac fur piled up behind her, ten faux eyes staring out from its fluff, a testament to that fact. Tufted ears flick and flutter this way and that to dispel the lingering flies that greenleaf has brought back with a vengeance, feathered paws planted solidly in the mud as Mockingbirdcry leans forward on them, utterly focused.
A heavily lashed brown eye occasionally flicks towards the roving pack of kittens at play, but she worries little . . . Moltface watches over the day's charges at a distance, and more than she'd like a rest from her queenly duties, she does not doubt the chimeric cat would also prefer a break from her rambling. Can she be blamed, though? The most recent Gathering had been a fiasco of legendary proportions, its political ripples felt across the land as surely as the sun falls each day. Not for the first time, the lilac torbie curses her own preference for avoiding the Gatherings . . . she's pestered Moltface for gossip endlessly since, and talked the issue over until the other queens were no doubt sick of it, but nothing can truly replace being present as the clouds obscured the moon.
" And then . . . " a starting mew trickles off into half - coherent mumblings to herself, delicate shell - white claw tracing patterns in the crumbly and temporarily dried mud . . . for this brief time, her etchings would not immediately revert to gloop, and she plans to take full advantage of it. A russet - marbled stone marks WindClan's leader, a white - shot one their own, three more of varying shades placed with equal consideration . . . a smattering of other rocks, lilac, golden, blue, signify the other major players, what some might consider a brazen move given some of the aforementioned cats resided in this very camp.
Her careful claw marks the connections between each in thin lines, teasing out a tangled pattern largely incomprehensible to the average observer. Her heavy tail flicks a swathe through the mud, the only expression of her fascination from a body otherwise held carefully still so as not to spoil her work. WindClan was nearly two moons returned to their territory, and still they encroached upon that of others . . . and while Chilledstar had expressed their opinions in no uncertain terms with an open - pawed slap, Lilacfur doubly so, she remains relatively in the dark on the finer nuances of the issue . . . how had Lichenstar replied, she wonders? Did the two Clans not actively embroiled in the issue have any thoughts, or was their silence perhaps owed to their own problems as yet unknown?
Mockingbirdcry lets her breath out in an irritable huff, heavy tail slapping the gelatinous earth of camp. So many variables, and so many of them unknown to her! Presuming she had no kit in need of incessant coddling next Gathering—and the lilac torbie is known to raise independent children—she might have to break her seasons - long absence and attend, if only to see the aftershocks of the last and perhaps ferret out some details of the other Clans' standings in a newly shifted political landscape. A gilt - crowned white muzzle downturns with evident frustration . . . it's nearly impossible to fully consider the scope of the issue without a firstpaw account, not that she'd be so willing to encroach on an attendee's time.
She's seriously contemplating pestering Moltface for any news on the half moon - aged issue once more when the heavy rhythmic thump of a Clanmate's paws becomes evident. Feathered ears flick upright and chestnut - dark eyes widen in unexpected pleasure. Their deputy would be an excellent source, and perhaps she could hear Smogmaw's insights on the complicated dynamics crowning the Great Rock, him being a firstpaw witness and heir to such a tangled web. Her desire for information immediately outweighs her reluctance to bother, and her heavy tail flicks in tandem with a low - voiced mew summoning the deputy over to where she sits before her incomplete diagram. " Smogmaw! You were at the last Gathering, I presume? "
