hang me up to dry | gravel

[strawmoon]

Another dreary day, where the clouds hung over the moors like a foreboding warning. And unfortunately for Strawmoon, the scent of rain means no tunnels for a bit. It's irritating, the fact that they couldn't leave camp, but they're not trained in moor-runner duties so today they feel absolutely useless. Strawmoon tucks themselves in to their nest, shifting from spot to spot until the boredom was just too much to bare.

They rise, quickly now, and shuffle to the edge of camp, to the middle of camp, and all around anywhere their paws could get them. They didn't like not being in the tunnels, they didn't like feeling useless so they grit their teeth and swing their head towards the poor, unfortunate soul that happened to be nearby. It's Gravelpaw, someone Straw hadn't exactly interacted with before... But Straw thinks they're okay, they're quiet and not as loud as some of the other apprentices. Straw already misses being one and they haven't been a warrior for more than a day. "Would you like to take a walk...?" they blink once, twice towards Gravel, tilting their head upwards. Company would be very nice, they think.

// @GRAVELPAW ​

"speech"​

 

[GRAVELSNAP]

The monochrome moor runner, unlike their tunneling companion, actually enjoys when it rains. The sound of a storm raging overhead, rain pounding down upon their pelt, is the best way to fall asleep, they think. They’re tucked into their favorite shadowed corner of camp, curled in their nest, when they spot a dappled figure pacing around, seeming aimless in their motions. The black and white apprentice stands, suddenly made anxious by Strawmoon’s movements—what are they pacing for? Are they concerned about the oncoming rain? Should Gravelpaw be worried as well? They begin to slink toward the tunneler, frown set on their face.

Gravelpaw admittedly isn’t friendly with most of the WindClanners around their age. They aren’t fond of weaklings, annoyances, or idiots—it just so happens that many of the kits and apprentices of the clan fall into one of those categories. Strawmoon, for one, is not any of the three. The calico is quiet, respectable rather than brash and irritating. So when the newly-named warrior asks them to go out on a walk with them, Gravelpaw doesn’t immediately brush them off. "Sure," they say with a gentle dip of their head. "Where are we walking to?" Hazel eyes glance out over their surroundings, scanning the horizon for any specific landmarks that Strawmoon may want to visit.
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[ DEATH OF A DREAM ]​

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