- Jan 1, 2023
- 313
- 182
- 43
It took Chrysaliswing almost two full turnings of the seasons to realize the cyclical nature of life, as though it were some arcane knowledge slowly revealed to him over the course of harsh suns and bright moons - a sort of language that the bugs and the birds spoke, and not him of earthly disposition. As the day rolled over its belly to expose the night, it would continue this (fruitless, one could ponder) cycle. The fact lie in plain sight, and yet Chrysalis' own wool-covered eyes could not parse it through the miasma of anger and temper.
Termitehum always prattled on about how the caterpillar veiled itself from the world, until it became a great butterfly. Chrysalis wanted to ask how the caterpillar even turned into a butterfly inside the chrysalis, though he figured even an insect expert like Termite hadn't a clue. Then, the butterfly would die, falling to the ground as its color faded as though it seeped through the ground and became naught, as the storm's rain and the spring's wind did. The butterfly, once the paragon of unbridled beauty and unfettered liberation, now was the food of which the caterpillar would then feed on. A cycle, inevitable in nature and inescapable by definition.
The presence of those that had tangled themselves in his ties also seemed to be cyclical, as if a spider's web ensnaring misfortunate prey and morning dewdrop alike, of strings leading to one nil end. His father's shrewd gaze followed his nightly visits to the medicine cat den, as though the moonlight reflected most heavy on his serpentine stare. Chrysaliswing had gotten used to it, though, and Dragonflywing's words seemed to have no power if he could not stand proud alongside it. To look down on a man was to absolve him from his sins, a piteous ignominy. Aside from the plague that had haunted him his entire waking life, Chrys' mentor's angled countenance hovered besides him in whatever patrols they happened to be assigned together. Again, pointed glances were the only thing he had come to expect from his clan.
And Honeysplash had returned, much to his dismay. The sable-and-flame tomcat could never find the right words to articulate why he felt the things he felt. By all accounts, he should have felt happy for her safe return from the Twolegs that had captured her in their sickly, gangly claws (as he presumed, because what cat in their right mind would willingly go to the Twolegplace?). And yet, that familiar ire bubbled in his throat like acid, embittering his fangs as snake venom did - a curse, anathema upon bore teeth. It was his only weapon, and a blade he knew how to raise well against friend and foe alike. Why do you come now, after all the suffering that Skyclan has gone through? Do you seriously think that you can just return whenever you want to? Clan life isn't just something you can choose not to do!
Still, the tom wanted to see her. Like the moth to the open flame, the fly to the honey-spill, he was drawn to his own machinated tragedies.
The chimaera-coated tom found himself buzzing near the medicine cat den again - not for the she-cat he once considered his good friend. The herb-scent, pungently tangy and minty with the proclivity to cling to the coat like decay to the crowfood, grew on him. Barely, though, as he always made sure to refresh himself afterwards with the smell of the pines and the foliage. He couldn't guess how the medicine cats stood it at all. This time, he was at the mouth of the den because Dragonflywing had demanded someone help him with his lame leg. Of course, no other cat really wanted to deal with a senile feline, and no warrior was courageous enough to fight the beast that was the constant nagging of a cat inching closer and closer to death by the heartbeat. Do it yourself if you're just going to complain like a kittypet who hasn't eaten for an hour.
Shuffling into the cramped den that smelled of rank herbs and mildew, Chrysaliswing found his father gone from the nest that he had practically rooted himself to. It was strange, as though a tree that had walked out from its knolls and place in the ground - where could such a nuisance have disappeared off to without raising the attention of the whole forest? He must've gotten some sorry other cat to help him. The warrior could hear that grizzled, raspy voice complaining about how his only son was late to everything and never helped his poor old father, or something along that cadence. Unlike you, I'm busy hunting for my clan and not being a total waste of space and medicine.
"Um..." Chrysaliswing's tone, usually acerbic in note, now faltered. It was rare for the adder's tongue to freeze in midair, and even rarer for the stream of criticism to stop at his lips. He faced the golden-and-white furred she-cat that he had mulled over so much in his mind. He had to stop his face from instinctively curdling as if the housecat-stench still stuck to her like a bad dream, and seeing her now was as though his nightly visions had manifested in front of him (for better or for worse). "Hi." He grumbled, awkwardness stiffening spindly whiskers and taut posture.
@Honeysplash
Termitehum always prattled on about how the caterpillar veiled itself from the world, until it became a great butterfly. Chrysalis wanted to ask how the caterpillar even turned into a butterfly inside the chrysalis, though he figured even an insect expert like Termite hadn't a clue. Then, the butterfly would die, falling to the ground as its color faded as though it seeped through the ground and became naught, as the storm's rain and the spring's wind did. The butterfly, once the paragon of unbridled beauty and unfettered liberation, now was the food of which the caterpillar would then feed on. A cycle, inevitable in nature and inescapable by definition.
The presence of those that had tangled themselves in his ties also seemed to be cyclical, as if a spider's web ensnaring misfortunate prey and morning dewdrop alike, of strings leading to one nil end. His father's shrewd gaze followed his nightly visits to the medicine cat den, as though the moonlight reflected most heavy on his serpentine stare. Chrysaliswing had gotten used to it, though, and Dragonflywing's words seemed to have no power if he could not stand proud alongside it. To look down on a man was to absolve him from his sins, a piteous ignominy. Aside from the plague that had haunted him his entire waking life, Chrys' mentor's angled countenance hovered besides him in whatever patrols they happened to be assigned together. Again, pointed glances were the only thing he had come to expect from his clan.
And Honeysplash had returned, much to his dismay. The sable-and-flame tomcat could never find the right words to articulate why he felt the things he felt. By all accounts, he should have felt happy for her safe return from the Twolegs that had captured her in their sickly, gangly claws (as he presumed, because what cat in their right mind would willingly go to the Twolegplace?). And yet, that familiar ire bubbled in his throat like acid, embittering his fangs as snake venom did - a curse, anathema upon bore teeth. It was his only weapon, and a blade he knew how to raise well against friend and foe alike. Why do you come now, after all the suffering that Skyclan has gone through? Do you seriously think that you can just return whenever you want to? Clan life isn't just something you can choose not to do!
Still, the tom wanted to see her. Like the moth to the open flame, the fly to the honey-spill, he was drawn to his own machinated tragedies.
The chimaera-coated tom found himself buzzing near the medicine cat den again - not for the she-cat he once considered his good friend. The herb-scent, pungently tangy and minty with the proclivity to cling to the coat like decay to the crowfood, grew on him. Barely, though, as he always made sure to refresh himself afterwards with the smell of the pines and the foliage. He couldn't guess how the medicine cats stood it at all. This time, he was at the mouth of the den because Dragonflywing had demanded someone help him with his lame leg. Of course, no other cat really wanted to deal with a senile feline, and no warrior was courageous enough to fight the beast that was the constant nagging of a cat inching closer and closer to death by the heartbeat. Do it yourself if you're just going to complain like a kittypet who hasn't eaten for an hour.
Shuffling into the cramped den that smelled of rank herbs and mildew, Chrysaliswing found his father gone from the nest that he had practically rooted himself to. It was strange, as though a tree that had walked out from its knolls and place in the ground - where could such a nuisance have disappeared off to without raising the attention of the whole forest? He must've gotten some sorry other cat to help him. The warrior could hear that grizzled, raspy voice complaining about how his only son was late to everything and never helped his poor old father, or something along that cadence. Unlike you, I'm busy hunting for my clan and not being a total waste of space and medicine.
"Um..." Chrysaliswing's tone, usually acerbic in note, now faltered. It was rare for the adder's tongue to freeze in midair, and even rarer for the stream of criticism to stop at his lips. He faced the golden-and-white furred she-cat that he had mulled over so much in his mind. He had to stop his face from instinctively curdling as if the housecat-stench still stuck to her like a bad dream, and seeing her now was as though his nightly visions had manifested in front of him (for better or for worse). "Hi." He grumbled, awkwardness stiffening spindly whiskers and taut posture.
@Honeysplash
