- Jan 4, 2024
- 43
- 11
- 8
✞ The kit has grown since they were first brought into the clan’s temporary home at the horseplace. They still stand miniscule against their clanmates, thin and fragile beside the broader figures of the moor runners especially. The scar that now mars the fur above their eye is evidence enough of Blizzardkit’s fragility; they wonder whether they will become an apprentice at all, if they are so small. Should they be larger, by now? They do not recall much of their mother, cannot place her size, but they stand much smaller than some of the other occupants of the nursery despite being older. Perhaps she was a small cat, too. Perhaps that is why the cold took her first.
Pale eyes are cast upward, where stars watch eternally over the clan, even if unseen. Does their mother know how much they’ve grown since Slateheart first whisked them away to the safety of WindClan? Does she watch on still, though they have abandoned her memory? As if stirred by their thoughts, a cold wind blows through the camp, sending a shiver crawling down the kit’s spine. Their thin pelt prickles, hardly enough to keep them warm even without the icy touch of the wind. Their oversized ears droop as the image of an icy landscape invades their thoughts. The aftermath that they have been crudely named after—it is cold and unforgiving, things that they are trying so very hard not to be. It is the reason why they forgave Gravekit so easily, despite the ache that still lingers occasionally in the scar above their eye. They will not be cold, they do not want to be the same thing that took their family. But they were gifted this name, Blizzard, by the very cats who rescued them from the jaws of death. They cannot shed it so easily.
They wish that they could shed the cold that clings to their wispy coat, though. Shelter on the from the elements is scarce on the moorland, even within WindClan’s camp. But there is… one den that they can take shelter in, besides the overcrowded nursery or the foul-smelling medicine cats’ den. Unlike both the others, only one cat rests within the leader’s den, and so the little albino kit wanders their way inside and makes themself right at home. Amber and chocolate rosetted fur makes a nest for their slight form. They are unsure whether Sunstar will even notice.
They are reminded of their cuddling into the fur of Periwinklebreeze’s flower-riddled tail back in the barn—they are larger now than they were back then, but so too is Sunstar than the black-pointed lead warrior. The kit makes no comment as they paw cautiously at the older tom’s fur, content to settle into their bed within the comfort of silence. They have not asked whether or not what they are doing is okay with the mighty warrior, but the sun-touched pelt is so fluffy, so comfortable, that they do not question their own choice. They bare their teeth in a broad yawn, snowy paws kneading into dense fur, before at last settling to curl up amidst the warmth that the leader exudes.
// @SUNSTAR
Pale eyes are cast upward, where stars watch eternally over the clan, even if unseen. Does their mother know how much they’ve grown since Slateheart first whisked them away to the safety of WindClan? Does she watch on still, though they have abandoned her memory? As if stirred by their thoughts, a cold wind blows through the camp, sending a shiver crawling down the kit’s spine. Their thin pelt prickles, hardly enough to keep them warm even without the icy touch of the wind. Their oversized ears droop as the image of an icy landscape invades their thoughts. The aftermath that they have been crudely named after—it is cold and unforgiving, things that they are trying so very hard not to be. It is the reason why they forgave Gravekit so easily, despite the ache that still lingers occasionally in the scar above their eye. They will not be cold, they do not want to be the same thing that took their family. But they were gifted this name, Blizzard, by the very cats who rescued them from the jaws of death. They cannot shed it so easily.
They wish that they could shed the cold that clings to their wispy coat, though. Shelter on the from the elements is scarce on the moorland, even within WindClan’s camp. But there is… one den that they can take shelter in, besides the overcrowded nursery or the foul-smelling medicine cats’ den. Unlike both the others, only one cat rests within the leader’s den, and so the little albino kit wanders their way inside and makes themself right at home. Amber and chocolate rosetted fur makes a nest for their slight form. They are unsure whether Sunstar will even notice.
They are reminded of their cuddling into the fur of Periwinklebreeze’s flower-riddled tail back in the barn—they are larger now than they were back then, but so too is Sunstar than the black-pointed lead warrior. The kit makes no comment as they paw cautiously at the older tom’s fur, content to settle into their bed within the comfort of silence. They have not asked whether or not what they are doing is okay with the mighty warrior, but the sun-touched pelt is so fluffy, so comfortable, that they do not question their own choice. They bare their teeth in a broad yawn, snowy paws kneading into dense fur, before at last settling to curl up amidst the warmth that the leader exudes.
// @SUNSTAR