- Jan 11, 2023
- 61
- 22
- 8
It was when he had thanked StarClan for his meal – prey that was plentiful and nourishing as it danced across the moors, much unlike the small, stringy bundles that would tuck themselves under the earth come Leafbare. The slide down his throat has been more uncomfortable than he’d remembered it ever being. When he dreamt that night, the burn had never quite went away.
He has been sick before, one chilly Leafbare where a plague had swept through the barn he called home. He remembered not being able to breathe, wheezing out paltry breaths through a stuffy nose as he’d rested his weary head atop strands of dry golden - brown.
He had lived then, he didn’t think there was anyone who hadn’t, but he supposes, he was too young to remember.
Wolfsong had more uses for his stock than him. There were warriors stronger and faster than he; that were they not made better right away, the clan would surely suffer for it. He, by comparison, was an expendable thing, a breath of life into WindClan that would continue to be passed. Even though it saddens him so, he spends his nights curled the tunnels, and his days around as few as he could manage – and as the tunnels were, very few was very possible.
It is when day breaks, and – oh, his breath was reduced to a wheeze, the same as it had been that day so long ago, that he considers: perhaps, this could not be gotten over so easily. The sun burns his eyes – and this is confusing to him, the sun itself a flaming thing that he could not wrap his mind around. His steps are slow. And then, he does n ot recall what he had even come for. He finds that he is not very hungry at all. A tendril of discomfort curls round his ears, making them hot in a way he cannot explain. " Has it always been so… hot? " It is a question to no one, pearls at his eyes as they squint to escape the sun. The gaping maw of a nearby tunnel was oh so sinister, for a reason he could not name. This – this was home, he knew, he remembered, but had it always been like this? He looks at it in a way he never used to. Lambcurl shakes his head. A soft wheezing sound, " ...I'm sorry. "
He has been sick before, one chilly Leafbare where a plague had swept through the barn he called home. He remembered not being able to breathe, wheezing out paltry breaths through a stuffy nose as he’d rested his weary head atop strands of dry golden - brown.
He had lived then, he didn’t think there was anyone who hadn’t, but he supposes, he was too young to remember.
Wolfsong had more uses for his stock than him. There were warriors stronger and faster than he; that were they not made better right away, the clan would surely suffer for it. He, by comparison, was an expendable thing, a breath of life into WindClan that would continue to be passed. Even though it saddens him so, he spends his nights curled the tunnels, and his days around as few as he could manage – and as the tunnels were, very few was very possible.
It is when day breaks, and – oh, his breath was reduced to a wheeze, the same as it had been that day so long ago, that he considers: perhaps, this could not be gotten over so easily. The sun burns his eyes – and this is confusing to him, the sun itself a flaming thing that he could not wrap his mind around. His steps are slow. And then, he does n ot recall what he had even come for. He finds that he is not very hungry at all. A tendril of discomfort curls round his ears, making them hot in a way he cannot explain. " Has it always been so… hot? " It is a question to no one, pearls at his eyes as they squint to escape the sun. The gaping maw of a nearby tunnel was oh so sinister, for a reason he could not name. This – this was home, he knew, he remembered, but had it always been like this? He looks at it in a way he never used to. Lambcurl shakes his head. A soft wheezing sound, " ...I'm sorry. "
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OOC: he caught da ickness...
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tiny, curly - furred albino tom with teary pink eyes. ; dreamy – eyed and dreamy – minded, Lambcurl drags himself across the land with an ever-present smile and glassy bug eyes. Deeply honored to hold his position as a tunneler and whisperingly reverent with everything he does. Somewhat unnerving in ideals and the way he speaks, but he means well.
— tentative voice claim: fox mulder