- Jan 1, 2023
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( HI the first part of this post is just some elaboration on chrys' backstory, the only important parts are the last paragraph B) )
There were many mysteries in this world. and even at a young age did Chrysalispaw catch onto whatever the land had to offer, as though juvenile spirit found itself easily entangled and stumbling upon the complex of life. Curiosity was a virtue, and wit was its diviner. How did the sun stay in the sky? How does water have the energy to always run? How are clouds made?
What did his father think of him?
Chrysalispaw bore that awareness that felines have a subtle sense attuned towards unspoken emotions, as if whiskers could twitch to comb through implicit strings and tacit words. He had never been good at expressing it, but he knew that even the smallest of kits harbored that hapless, luckless intelligence. The adults in his life liked to joke that kittens were nothing more than bumbling bodies with bellies bloated with milk and heads inhaling candy clouds. Chrys disagreed. The tom had learned from locking eyes with his father for the first time, and the other man was the largest thing in his narrow realm of the den, blocking the light as the eclipse does to the shining sun. He was Chrys' moon to a sky newly painted and not yet dried. He saw nothing reflected back in a golden gaze, as if his father's stare was a pool of stiffened honey, with no allowance of a reflection nor a guise. It was static, steadfast, stubborn. It was cold.
At least Chrys could sense a dull sort of affection pulsate from his mother Earwigtuft, the quiet molly a source of warmth and comfort, like a satin-laden cradle to curl against when the season's bite grew especially curt. She hadn't had the eloquence to lie down her compassion, either, but at least she tried. At least, Chrys thought she did. With pillow-soft pelt and attentive grooming, but never with the graceful ties of verses that he had heard from other mothers, for his parents seemed to lack the tact and elegance that the other couples harnessed. Still, she tried, though no wont guided gauche manners. But his father? Chrysalis hadn't a clue what Dragonflywing thought.
As a kitten, he trailed at his father's cast shadow, as though an extension of the creature draped in encumbered night. And, like the twilight, Dragonflywing seemed not to remain in one place at a time, as superficial and momentary as the times of day tended to be. However, that didn't stop Chrysaliskit. He wanted to hunt and stalk his prey like all good warriors should, just as he observed his father doing, as though the kitten were nothing more than a beast of habit, of wont, of mimicry. That was what all cats were, he knew. He must have been so good at it that his father never even noticed him.
The one thing Chrysalispaw remembered about Dragonflywing was his strident voice, which the apprentice now likened to a crow's war cry, though it spelled of no glorious victory nor gilded laurels. Dragonflywing's scavenger song didn't often contain anything other than an itching irritation, Chrys found. Nothing was really illustrious about his father. It was rather about the way the other tom would draw out his weapon of words, and if Chrys' tongue were a dagger than his would be a longsword. The only sentences that Chrys had heard from him were ones laced in venom and knotted together with crude sentiment, a sloppy exchange that spilled from churlish cowls, as though what came out was nothing more than oil and saltwater. If Dragonfly's verses were truly so caustic, then he had no choice but to splutter and retch them out. Criticism, blame, imprecation - not once had his own father said anything of substance to Chrysalispaw.
Whatever kernel of love had been planted in Chrys had curdled into a seed of hatred, if there was any love that had been there from the beginning. The garden grew into its thorns, as the feline grew into its claws, made for hawkish war and faulty whims. The young boy soon grew to despise the man who looked like him, in the build and sable coat they shared. He was his father's son, and yet Dragonfly refused to look upon the mirror that he had created, as if facing himself would mar him more than any poison or anathema ever could. Chrysalispaw could never understand it.
As soon as he had been apprenticed, everything seemed to shift - not enough to uproot him, but enough so that he could truly see the rifts that rippled beneath downy feet. His littermates had found new friendships (they always seemed closer to each other than to him). Earwigtuft seemed to never linger in camp for long. Dragonflywing still would not look at him.
He didn't need his family, anyhow. He didn't need anyone.
--
Perhaps it was the wintry wind that whistled between his ribs, tickling him like a feather lodged in between his lungs, and leaving his throat hoarse and ridden after excessive coughing. Perhaps it was the incessant chittering of noisy apprentices at dawnbreak, how they babled on like a raucous brook, as he slept besides the churning waves of gossip and the droning strains of banter. Perhaps it was the way his father only stared and never spoke to him, even today. Even after Chrys went on the dawn patrol, even after he caught the plumpest rat for the fresh-kill pile, even as he watched his father touch every prize except his own son's.
"Hiyah! Take that, you stupid tree!" The clunk of hard stone against harder bark rang through the forest, a clash of immovably solid objects, and the woods had not recoiled nor remissed. For a few seconds, all fell silent, then went back to normal. The birds still twittered. The squirrels still scurried. And Chrysalispaw still stood. The chimaera could be spotted as a russet flash against the alabaster canvas, though the snow had melted and melded with the ground below, as though pure color leached into the dirtier hues that lie underneath. As though heavensent weather would return to destitute ground, and would fade away. It's about time, he had muttered inwardly before. A few gathered rocks sat patient and prudent besides him, blending in with the dreary surroundings. He would keep throwing the pebbles at the trees, with his aim less than optimal. Well, when the rocks did hit the trees, that made it worth it. He didn't know why, but he found it therapeutic, and yet vexation still overshadowed any positivity that could be gleaned. If only he could change the course of trees. If only he could get his father to look at him.
There were many mysteries in this world. and even at a young age did Chrysalispaw catch onto whatever the land had to offer, as though juvenile spirit found itself easily entangled and stumbling upon the complex of life. Curiosity was a virtue, and wit was its diviner. How did the sun stay in the sky? How does water have the energy to always run? How are clouds made?
What did his father think of him?
Chrysalispaw bore that awareness that felines have a subtle sense attuned towards unspoken emotions, as if whiskers could twitch to comb through implicit strings and tacit words. He had never been good at expressing it, but he knew that even the smallest of kits harbored that hapless, luckless intelligence. The adults in his life liked to joke that kittens were nothing more than bumbling bodies with bellies bloated with milk and heads inhaling candy clouds. Chrys disagreed. The tom had learned from locking eyes with his father for the first time, and the other man was the largest thing in his narrow realm of the den, blocking the light as the eclipse does to the shining sun. He was Chrys' moon to a sky newly painted and not yet dried. He saw nothing reflected back in a golden gaze, as if his father's stare was a pool of stiffened honey, with no allowance of a reflection nor a guise. It was static, steadfast, stubborn. It was cold.
At least Chrys could sense a dull sort of affection pulsate from his mother Earwigtuft, the quiet molly a source of warmth and comfort, like a satin-laden cradle to curl against when the season's bite grew especially curt. She hadn't had the eloquence to lie down her compassion, either, but at least she tried. At least, Chrys thought she did. With pillow-soft pelt and attentive grooming, but never with the graceful ties of verses that he had heard from other mothers, for his parents seemed to lack the tact and elegance that the other couples harnessed. Still, she tried, though no wont guided gauche manners. But his father? Chrysalis hadn't a clue what Dragonflywing thought.
As a kitten, he trailed at his father's cast shadow, as though an extension of the creature draped in encumbered night. And, like the twilight, Dragonflywing seemed not to remain in one place at a time, as superficial and momentary as the times of day tended to be. However, that didn't stop Chrysaliskit. He wanted to hunt and stalk his prey like all good warriors should, just as he observed his father doing, as though the kitten were nothing more than a beast of habit, of wont, of mimicry. That was what all cats were, he knew. He must have been so good at it that his father never even noticed him.
The one thing Chrysalispaw remembered about Dragonflywing was his strident voice, which the apprentice now likened to a crow's war cry, though it spelled of no glorious victory nor gilded laurels. Dragonflywing's scavenger song didn't often contain anything other than an itching irritation, Chrys found. Nothing was really illustrious about his father. It was rather about the way the other tom would draw out his weapon of words, and if Chrys' tongue were a dagger than his would be a longsword. The only sentences that Chrys had heard from him were ones laced in venom and knotted together with crude sentiment, a sloppy exchange that spilled from churlish cowls, as though what came out was nothing more than oil and saltwater. If Dragonfly's verses were truly so caustic, then he had no choice but to splutter and retch them out. Criticism, blame, imprecation - not once had his own father said anything of substance to Chrysalispaw.
Whatever kernel of love had been planted in Chrys had curdled into a seed of hatred, if there was any love that had been there from the beginning. The garden grew into its thorns, as the feline grew into its claws, made for hawkish war and faulty whims. The young boy soon grew to despise the man who looked like him, in the build and sable coat they shared. He was his father's son, and yet Dragonfly refused to look upon the mirror that he had created, as if facing himself would mar him more than any poison or anathema ever could. Chrysalispaw could never understand it.
As soon as he had been apprenticed, everything seemed to shift - not enough to uproot him, but enough so that he could truly see the rifts that rippled beneath downy feet. His littermates had found new friendships (they always seemed closer to each other than to him). Earwigtuft seemed to never linger in camp for long. Dragonflywing still would not look at him.
He didn't need his family, anyhow. He didn't need anyone.
--
Perhaps it was the wintry wind that whistled between his ribs, tickling him like a feather lodged in between his lungs, and leaving his throat hoarse and ridden after excessive coughing. Perhaps it was the incessant chittering of noisy apprentices at dawnbreak, how they babled on like a raucous brook, as he slept besides the churning waves of gossip and the droning strains of banter. Perhaps it was the way his father only stared and never spoke to him, even today. Even after Chrys went on the dawn patrol, even after he caught the plumpest rat for the fresh-kill pile, even as he watched his father touch every prize except his own son's.
"Hiyah! Take that, you stupid tree!" The clunk of hard stone against harder bark rang through the forest, a clash of immovably solid objects, and the woods had not recoiled nor remissed. For a few seconds, all fell silent, then went back to normal. The birds still twittered. The squirrels still scurried. And Chrysalispaw still stood. The chimaera could be spotted as a russet flash against the alabaster canvas, though the snow had melted and melded with the ground below, as though pure color leached into the dirtier hues that lie underneath. As though heavensent weather would return to destitute ground, and would fade away. It's about time, he had muttered inwardly before. A few gathered rocks sat patient and prudent besides him, blending in with the dreary surroundings. He would keep throwing the pebbles at the trees, with his aim less than optimal. Well, when the rocks did hit the trees, that made it worth it. He didn't know why, but he found it therapeutic, and yet vexation still overshadowed any positivity that could be gleaned. If only he could change the course of trees. If only he could get his father to look at him.
stine#3004