- Mar 30, 2024
- 35
- 4
- 8
Since the fallen tyrant's extradition, of which his only release was death, the trees had quieted themselves. Whether they had silently mourned or cheered for Skyclaw could not be seen by Campionsong's mortal eyes - still, he sensed their stasis, suspended in honeyed time. He knew naught if they would ever return to how they were.
Campionsong wanted nothing more than to escape the tumult of the overturning of political spearheads, like a lumbering beast had adsorbed every thorn and twist from traversing through the deadfall, dragging with it the weals and woes of the world. Thunderclan was much like a large animal, of which every brandish and scar would fester upon its flesh and nestle itself upon the fur that would furl over it. The older warrior supposed that all groups were like this, just heaving and breathing things with mercurial temperaments and the propensity to destroy themselves at any given moment. He had finally found the time to take his son - now, apprentice - to train, and the woodlands seemed to preen themselves of all the umbrage of more terrible yesterdays, like a bird brushing away the grunge and the grime from its plumage. Washing away with the rainwater, the olden hours of the despot had filtered into the sunlight, and out through the morning vapors. Still, some resentment seemed to remain, much like one could never truly cleanse themselves of whatever dirt had marred it before. "So... Hunting, huh. Y'know, your old man was quite the hunter back in the day. I still am! Show me your best hunter's crouch." That was a bold-faced lie, but it wasn't like Basilpaw had been alive to contest it. Truthfully, he had likely been the worst hunter that even his grandparents had seen... He turned to his bright-eyed son, linden-and-sun pitches like his other parent's hues poked through his pelt, a bittersweet citrus taste to have to be instructing a child of his own blood. Fatherhood was one thing, but mentorship was a completely different field.
( @BASILPAW! )
Campionsong wanted nothing more than to escape the tumult of the overturning of political spearheads, like a lumbering beast had adsorbed every thorn and twist from traversing through the deadfall, dragging with it the weals and woes of the world. Thunderclan was much like a large animal, of which every brandish and scar would fester upon its flesh and nestle itself upon the fur that would furl over it. The older warrior supposed that all groups were like this, just heaving and breathing things with mercurial temperaments and the propensity to destroy themselves at any given moment. He had finally found the time to take his son - now, apprentice - to train, and the woodlands seemed to preen themselves of all the umbrage of more terrible yesterdays, like a bird brushing away the grunge and the grime from its plumage. Washing away with the rainwater, the olden hours of the despot had filtered into the sunlight, and out through the morning vapors. Still, some resentment seemed to remain, much like one could never truly cleanse themselves of whatever dirt had marred it before. "So... Hunting, huh. Y'know, your old man was quite the hunter back in the day. I still am! Show me your best hunter's crouch." That was a bold-faced lie, but it wasn't like Basilpaw had been alive to contest it. Truthfully, he had likely been the worst hunter that even his grandparents had seen... He turned to his bright-eyed son, linden-and-sun pitches like his other parent's hues poked through his pelt, a bittersweet citrus taste to have to be instructing a child of his own blood. Fatherhood was one thing, but mentorship was a completely different field.
( @BASILPAW! )