GOOD GOOD THINGS — wind

[Larkfeather !]

The slight shift in the breeze had been lost to the patrol when they had first set out, Larkpaw herself had hardly noticed a difference, accustomed to being battered by the wind on the moors worst days.
It isn’t until she’s crouched within the moor grass, maw parted in search of rabbit, does she feel the first concerning gust.
It hits her, invisible but fierce, against her flank.
Startled, she stumbled sideways, feeling her fur being parted in the most uncomfortable of directions.
The breeze doesn’t yield, roaring against her ears as it only grows stronger.
The apprentice is quick to make her way out of the grass, despite the blades that whipped at her muzzle, and spill out onto a well-trodden trail, wide verdant eyes searching wildly for the rest of her patrol- for Rabbitpounce.
”Hello?” She’d call out to the wind, eyes squinting involuntarily when specks of rain begin to fall, their landing feeling like icy pin-pricks.
She spins on her heel, trying to piece together where the patrol had split up.
Reluctantly, she falls into a defensive crouch, unable to see against the wind and rain at her full height.
Oh stars, oh stars! Her mind races.

”Speech.”

[ YOUR SILVER LINING ]​

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[WOLFSONG]

──⇌•〘 INFO 〙 The wind and rain make for a poor combination. Wolfsong has considered in the past how fortunate the other clans are for their thicker trees; while Sootstar looks upon the moors as a sign of closeness with StarClan, he has only ever thought that they are left at the mercy of the elements. This damnable wind. It must have brought the rain with it— such force behind each drop, like a claw glancing off skin.

He crouches low to combat the strength of the wind, balance kept close to the ground and his ears flat, sole eye closed. It's only when he hears a faint voice –a patrol member– that he makes an effort to move, digging each paw into the dirt. He finds the apprentice crouched as he had been, and mirrors her position at her side. "Protect your face," he advises her, rasping voice lifting to be heard. "Use your paws. It is too dangerous to try the trek to camp."
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[SUNNVAR]

The snow they had dealt with some moons ago would be a far more welcoming disaster than this. The journey he had taken with Wolfsong had acquainted the two to many different types of weather, but none so threatening as this one seems intent on becoming. He is no small tom, but even he is victim to this unseen force the bowl of their moors seems to amplify. He walks it with his head ducked low to his chest and his ears flattened. The rain begins to pelt him before he has found shelter or the patrol that they had set out with– it is not Larkpaw's call that brings him closer, but Wolfsong's voice carried by the wind.

With his eyes half-closed against the stinging rain and his head ducked low against the wind, it is no surprise that he very nearly trips across the two of them. One paw presses down upon Wolfsong's back before he yanks it away, his huff of laughter stolen by the storm. "You make for a well-placed rock," he shouts, at the same time that he drops to his own belly and shifts closer to the two of them. Not at Larkpaw's other side, but before both of their faces, hoping to shield them both from the worst of it. His long, thick tail curls around the younger cat, and his face is close to Wolfsong's. "Have either of you seen where the others went?"

＞ˏˋ〘  OOC NOTES REFERENCE 05.28.2023 〙ˊˎ＜

• ooc: —

• 

• SUNSTRIDE. named for his coloration and his bold chasing of fate.
  —— cis male, he - him. thirty-eight moons old. lead warrior of windclan + former rogue.
  —— gay, but somewhat closeted. will not be open about his interests.  single, will be so.
  —— seems comparatively stranger than who he was some moons ago, serious and cool.
  
  sunstride is broad and bold– a creature standing above most of windclan, though not a beast beyond its borders, with fur that flames red and deepens to a burnt amber with every whorl and stripe. his eyes, in comparison, are a pale summer's blue, still as bold as the rest of him.

• "speech"

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[WEASELCLAW]

Like the others, Weaselclaw hadn’t initially noticed the change in the wind. He notes direction as he stalks the moor’s gilded hills for prey-scent, but the slow increase in intensity creeps up on him. He’s come across a mouse nibbling a seed. His pupils are dilated to a thin sliver of darkness in pale blue eyes; he runs his tongue over his teeth, preparing to leap, when all at once he’s buffeted back by a gale so powerful it nearly throws him off his paws.

“StarClan!” It’s a curse to him, now, and it’s a fear. He stumbles, nearly injuring himself in an attempt to stay upright. It’s all he can do to flatten himself into a thicket of grass and sink his claws into the earth to anchor himself. All the while, the lithe brown tabby glares up at the sky, rolling in storm clouds but giving little rain. Do they mean to tear WindClan apart entirely?

It's a slow creep, but Weaselclaw eventually spots the familiar pelts of Wolfsong and Sunstride through the grasses. “Here,” he rasps, pulling himself with some effort toward the rest of his patrol. He looks at Larkpaw with narrowed eyes. “How are we going to get back to camp if it doesn’t let up soon?” He worries the four of them—and whoever else is caught unaware on the windswept moors—will be tossed like debris into the wind.
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[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]​

 

[>Twigwhisper]

— The awkwardly set tunneler had tagged along to assist with drawing prey from out of hiding but.. Now he just wanted to hide. There was only so much his long fur was able to shelter him from, his pelt double in weight from the pelting rain. His squinting amber eyes were flickering to the other cats of the patrol, waiting to see what they were going to do. Brown ears were pinned against his head as he listened to them, he had a way to get back to camp but these other felines were too big for the tunnels. It didn't seem like it would ease up any time soon.

Twigwhisper would rise up from his hunches to peer around for any answers before his namesake would smack him in the face- A twig sent flying from the wind would give him an aggressive right hook. "Arg!" He'd shout in panic before dropping to the ground quickly. "I'm done. I'm done." The brown tabby would start complaining with tightly shut eyes. "The moors can eat rabbit droppings. We can try the tunnels, I'm taking those back." — tags​