- Feb 8, 2023
- 74
- 39
- 18
In camp, Moorblossom is a wilting flower. A stem sprouted from destitute soil, unable to weather the late Leaf-bare gales that threaten its frail connection. Nourishment in the hollow is scant and seldom-dispersed by her clanmates—fellow plants shriveled in their own right.
In the plains beyond the heather wall, Moorblossom grows vigorously once again. The rolling expanses afford her a sense of direction, as blazing paws carry her fleet-footed over slopes snowy and briny. Out here is the closest the young warrior can approximate to peace. Out here, where not a single spying eye casts its scrutinous glare, there exists room to allow her heart to forget. Room to allow her heart to race, sprint, and tumble freely away, ahead, and beyond the horizon.
There is much she wishes to banish from memory, like the look in someone's eyes when they know death is imminent. She saw Lilacstem die, Larkfeather too, wrenching terror etched into their very faces. She doesn't need that to stick with her. WindClan as a whole has endured the cruelties of the past season, and its battered ranks and fading hopes deserve an intermission. She deserves one as well. So, she runs, and running helps.
By a particular outcropping, where boulders protrude at odd angles like crooked teeth, does Moorblossom make out several outlines in her periphery. Their familiarity prompts a perk, a flare, and then, recognition. It's a patrol! Her tremendous pace falters not one bit, and instead quickens, burning her legs anew. She wants to bisect the group, cut right through them like a falling star. She wants to show each one of them just how fast she is, for old times' sake!
"Excuse me!" she's shrieking, and within a matter of mere moments, the moor runner has punctured the patrol's column. Her momentum slows as she arcs wide around the rear cat, before threading herself into their midst—as though she's been there the entire time. "Whew-wee! Where're we going?"
Panting from the effort, Moorblossom peers amicably towards her newfound patrolmates.
In the plains beyond the heather wall, Moorblossom grows vigorously once again. The rolling expanses afford her a sense of direction, as blazing paws carry her fleet-footed over slopes snowy and briny. Out here is the closest the young warrior can approximate to peace. Out here, where not a single spying eye casts its scrutinous glare, there exists room to allow her heart to forget. Room to allow her heart to race, sprint, and tumble freely away, ahead, and beyond the horizon.
There is much she wishes to banish from memory, like the look in someone's eyes when they know death is imminent. She saw Lilacstem die, Larkfeather too, wrenching terror etched into their very faces. She doesn't need that to stick with her. WindClan as a whole has endured the cruelties of the past season, and its battered ranks and fading hopes deserve an intermission. She deserves one as well. So, she runs, and running helps.
By a particular outcropping, where boulders protrude at odd angles like crooked teeth, does Moorblossom make out several outlines in her periphery. Their familiarity prompts a perk, a flare, and then, recognition. It's a patrol! Her tremendous pace falters not one bit, and instead quickens, burning her legs anew. She wants to bisect the group, cut right through them like a falling star. She wants to show each one of them just how fast she is, for old times' sake!
"Excuse me!" she's shrieking, and within a matter of mere moments, the moor runner has punctured the patrol's column. Her momentum slows as she arcs wide around the rear cat, before threading herself into their midst—as though she's been there the entire time. "Whew-wee! Where're we going?"
Panting from the effort, Moorblossom peers amicably towards her newfound patrolmates.
