- Aug 1, 2023
- 140
- 33
- 28
He doesn't really . . . primp, as a rule. Now and then the younger apprentices or kits manage to wear down his willpower enough that he'll permit them to decorate him outside of his vigilantly - maintained moth wings, the dusty green sets of eyes that sprawl out from behind his ears, but for the most part, he looks rather . . . unkempt. Since he was small, he's trusted the river water to keep his pelt at least non - offensive, and so he bears messy curls hanging in his eyes instead of a soft mane. The scent of newly fallen rain and smoke hangs over him instead of the soft perfume of flowers.
Today, though, he seems to make an exception. Maybe it had been the jolting sight of Dogteeth's own silken curls, so analogous to his own half - tangled mess of a pelt; maybe it had been the prodding efforts of Mothpaw and other not - friends not - strangers; maybe it had been . . . something else . . . He dashes the thought as one would porcelain against a wall. I'm just washing my fur. It's a totally normal thing to do. Yes, it is a totally normal thing to do for . . . literally anyone else. Those close to Cicadaflight have probably seen him with neat fur maybe twice in his life, and never of his own volition.
This is stupid, he thinks as he drags a paw over his ear, really stupid. The rest of his pelt ( relatively ) polished, or as close to it as it would ever be, he grabs a bent tail between both tufted paws to secure it and works at the thick mess of curls that form his distinctively inherited bottlebrush. Stupid, stupid, stupid . . . even as he tugs his claws gingerly through the worse tangles. He sighs, ears flicking irritably as the sun washes over him and warms their backs, illuminating shiny black - and - white fur.
For once in his life, he looks . . . put - together, fur neatly ruffled and combed through to evict it of its usual dull tangles . . . and for those who knew them, he looks more like his fathers than ever. It's Cicadastar's black - and - white masking his face and blue gleaming out of one eye, but it's Smokestar's scattered freckles that crown the bulkier build he'd inherited somewhere along the way. When someone wanders near with a questioning eye, he mutters more than a little self - consciously, " What? "
Today, though, he seems to make an exception. Maybe it had been the jolting sight of Dogteeth's own silken curls, so analogous to his own half - tangled mess of a pelt; maybe it had been the prodding efforts of Mothpaw and other not - friends not - strangers; maybe it had been . . . something else . . . He dashes the thought as one would porcelain against a wall. I'm just washing my fur. It's a totally normal thing to do. Yes, it is a totally normal thing to do for . . . literally anyone else. Those close to Cicadaflight have probably seen him with neat fur maybe twice in his life, and never of his own volition.
This is stupid, he thinks as he drags a paw over his ear, really stupid. The rest of his pelt ( relatively ) polished, or as close to it as it would ever be, he grabs a bent tail between both tufted paws to secure it and works at the thick mess of curls that form his distinctively inherited bottlebrush. Stupid, stupid, stupid . . . even as he tugs his claws gingerly through the worse tangles. He sighs, ears flicking irritably as the sun washes over him and warms their backs, illuminating shiny black - and - white fur.
For once in his life, he looks . . . put - together, fur neatly ruffled and combed through to evict it of its usual dull tangles . . . and for those who knew them, he looks more like his fathers than ever. It's Cicadastar's black - and - white masking his face and blue gleaming out of one eye, but it's Smokestar's scattered freckles that crown the bulkier build he'd inherited somewhere along the way. When someone wanders near with a questioning eye, he mutters more than a little self - consciously, " What? "
" speech ( theme week edition ) "
