S
Sweetbriar
Guest
( ♡ ) There are flowers blooming along the riverbank.
Wildflowers, thin stems reach up, up, up towards the skies and branching outwards with leaves and flowers at the head, petals in shades of white, purple, and pink. They're beautiful, the flowers here. Sweetbriar has always loved flowers, just as she has always loved the river. When she was a younger cat, a nomad, devoid of her Clan-name, she used to take note of all the different flowers she'd see on her travels. Never did she give a proper name for each, but she knew them by their scent and their sight.
She's seen these ones before, further upriver. Her first blooming-moons, she remembers, 24 moons ago now. Ah, what a strange thing, the ever-flowing passage of time. Seasons turn, she knows, but she must admit a fondness for new-leaf. She played, in that first season, with her siblings who'd lived through the river's rapids, heathen names falling like petals from their tongues. She misses those days, much as she loves her home in RiverClan.
Perhaps it is time to revisit her old ways. It has been far too long since she has spoken with her oldest -- and dearest -- friend.
Sweetbriar pulls one of the flowers from its stem, pads closer, looking over the waters. She sets it before the river. "Fate has been cruel to us river-folk, as late. We mourn one our own." She speaks softly. She dips her head, closes her eyes for a moment. Contemplation, something akin to prayer. She is not one to pray in silence, however. "Do not carry his spirit too swiftly away, dear friend. There are those who wish to see him, still." She had not known the fallen tom all that well, but she sees the pain her Clanmates carry nonetheless.
It had been strange to her, at first, the RiverClanners' views on death. They cling to those who are gone in a way that her mother would surely forbid; Sweetbriar herself barely remembers the faces of her fallen siblings. She'd never thought to question this until she heard the tales of the starry-pelted warriors. Perhaps there is some value in holding to life when it has passed, much as the part of her that still clings to her family's teachings rebels at the thought. But if it is true that the spirits of the dead can pull the weight of the unmoving stars just to see their loved ones, to warn and to watch and to linger, ever-changed but still here, then she will accept Clan mourning as she accepts all their traditions: with grace and quiet observation.
But she cannot sever all her old ties, nor does she want to. She feels more herself, speaking with the river again. She will fight for her Clan of course, should they call her, but her heart lies not with the cats. Instead, it is swept along with the waters, as her paws too once were.
"Our fellows are hurting. They have not lived so long as you, still feel pain from that which is fleeting. I pray you bring them kindness, in the coming seasons." With this, she picks up the flower, places it in the waters, and lets it float away. An offering, as is proper.
She'll stay here, for a bit. She feels calmer on the river's shore. She should hunt, she knows. Once her patrol finds the secluded spot that she has wandered off to, perhaps. For now, she will take a moment and watch, as the wildflower is swept further and further away by the currents.
While out hunting or on patrol you come across a flower that reminds you of something, someone or a fond memory.
// set after the windclan raid, but before the sunningrocks fight.
Wildflowers, thin stems reach up, up, up towards the skies and branching outwards with leaves and flowers at the head, petals in shades of white, purple, and pink. They're beautiful, the flowers here. Sweetbriar has always loved flowers, just as she has always loved the river. When she was a younger cat, a nomad, devoid of her Clan-name, she used to take note of all the different flowers she'd see on her travels. Never did she give a proper name for each, but she knew them by their scent and their sight.
She's seen these ones before, further upriver. Her first blooming-moons, she remembers, 24 moons ago now. Ah, what a strange thing, the ever-flowing passage of time. Seasons turn, she knows, but she must admit a fondness for new-leaf. She played, in that first season, with her siblings who'd lived through the river's rapids, heathen names falling like petals from their tongues. She misses those days, much as she loves her home in RiverClan.
Perhaps it is time to revisit her old ways. It has been far too long since she has spoken with her oldest -- and dearest -- friend.
Sweetbriar pulls one of the flowers from its stem, pads closer, looking over the waters. She sets it before the river. "Fate has been cruel to us river-folk, as late. We mourn one our own." She speaks softly. She dips her head, closes her eyes for a moment. Contemplation, something akin to prayer. She is not one to pray in silence, however. "Do not carry his spirit too swiftly away, dear friend. There are those who wish to see him, still." She had not known the fallen tom all that well, but she sees the pain her Clanmates carry nonetheless.
It had been strange to her, at first, the RiverClanners' views on death. They cling to those who are gone in a way that her mother would surely forbid; Sweetbriar herself barely remembers the faces of her fallen siblings. She'd never thought to question this until she heard the tales of the starry-pelted warriors. Perhaps there is some value in holding to life when it has passed, much as the part of her that still clings to her family's teachings rebels at the thought. But if it is true that the spirits of the dead can pull the weight of the unmoving stars just to see their loved ones, to warn and to watch and to linger, ever-changed but still here, then she will accept Clan mourning as she accepts all their traditions: with grace and quiet observation.
But she cannot sever all her old ties, nor does she want to. She feels more herself, speaking with the river again. She will fight for her Clan of course, should they call her, but her heart lies not with the cats. Instead, it is swept along with the waters, as her paws too once were.
"Our fellows are hurting. They have not lived so long as you, still feel pain from that which is fleeting. I pray you bring them kindness, in the coming seasons." With this, she picks up the flower, places it in the waters, and lets it float away. An offering, as is proper.
She'll stay here, for a bit. She feels calmer on the river's shore. She should hunt, she knows. Once her patrol finds the secluded spot that she has wandered off to, perhaps. For now, she will take a moment and watch, as the wildflower is swept further and further away by the currents.
While out hunting or on patrol you come across a flower that reminds you of something, someone or a fond memory.
// set after the windclan raid, but before the sunningrocks fight.
Last edited by a moderator:
