- Oct 29, 2022
- 30
- 10
- 8
It isn't even worth it to talk about how cold it is anymore. It's all that's ever on anybody's minds. Bringing up the weather as a conversation starter only prompts people to roll their eyes or huff and sigh, and justifiably so. Fishface regards the cold with just as much disgust as his clanmates, but he knows this period of loathing will soon come to pass. When the wintry conditions are normalised in another moon or so, he and his fellow RiverClanners won't torment themselves over conditions they cannot control. Hopefully there won't be so much stress in the hearts and the minds of his friends then.
Personal reservations aside, Fishface REALLY hates the cold. As a spindly, short-furred, underfed tomcat, he finds himself feeling as brittle as the ice which cloaked over the river. When he stands in snow taller than his knees, all perception in his paws disintegrates. And even supposing he could hunt for fish in the river's current condition, it's safe to say he'd abstain from doing so, because the water is so chilly it burns - and that doesn't make any sense.
Today's air is exceptionally crisp, to the point where Fishface lost the sense of feeling in his tail. It simply juts out from his rear as if it were a furry icicle, hardly responsive to his commands. Having heard stories of cats losing the tips of their ears in similar temperatures, this scares the young tom.
Clearly, the right thing to do in this situation is to bite his tail, just to check if it isn't too far gone. So there he is, right in the middle of camp, chasing his own tail like it's the most important thing he's ever done. His form his nothing short of impressive, bounding off his front legs in an effort to gnaw on his own butt. At one point he slips on the ground, landing hard on his ribs. But within moments he rises to all fours again, carelessly snapping away as if nobody were watching.
Personal reservations aside, Fishface REALLY hates the cold. As a spindly, short-furred, underfed tomcat, he finds himself feeling as brittle as the ice which cloaked over the river. When he stands in snow taller than his knees, all perception in his paws disintegrates. And even supposing he could hunt for fish in the river's current condition, it's safe to say he'd abstain from doing so, because the water is so chilly it burns - and that doesn't make any sense.
Today's air is exceptionally crisp, to the point where Fishface lost the sense of feeling in his tail. It simply juts out from his rear as if it were a furry icicle, hardly responsive to his commands. Having heard stories of cats losing the tips of their ears in similar temperatures, this scares the young tom.
Clearly, the right thing to do in this situation is to bite his tail, just to check if it isn't too far gone. So there he is, right in the middle of camp, chasing his own tail like it's the most important thing he's ever done. His form his nothing short of impressive, bounding off his front legs in an effort to gnaw on his own butt. At one point he slips on the ground, landing hard on his ribs. But within moments he rises to all fours again, carelessly snapping away as if nobody were watching.
