private leaving momma's love leftover ➺ yip

[doepath ࿔]

Whatever tiny moments of peace she can find are spent drawing in shuddering, deep breaths... Anything to try to find calm. Listen for the sound of the rustling leaves.... for the soft exhale of other poor souls waiting to be free of their mortal struggles. The stink of herbs and the distinctness of the ones she finds familiar... their names don't come to mind easily, it's like sifting through heavy waters and murky vision. She should be used to the fuzzy sight though... Her ear twitches as a new chorus joins the harmony, the little patter of feet that don't feel like they belong here. Golden eyes wink open to take a peak through the grim dark ambiance, spotting only the edges of a shadow crawling towards her like some horrible night creature.

Anxiousness takes hold in her chest, teeth grit in a frustrated search for what name she was meant to call for help. What had the spotted tom cat said...? Softrain....? Her brows furrow together as her head shrieks with protest- Too tired! Because for all her sleep, so little of it felt comfortable. A sunset gleam winks against the dark- the fur on her shoulders lies flat, recognizing those eyes like they're her own... if only she had those same gentle blues to break up the flame-flicker yellows.

"Hey," she whispers, as if fearful she's found a ghost to be her companion, "You okay?" To be in the medicine cat's den rarely meant good news... it doesn't even cross her mind that trembling paws might actually be here for her. There's a moment of silence... then an overwhelming trickle of insecurity begs to make her smaller, to disappear from prying, worried eyes. Carefully, Doecry shifts to try and better hide the awkward crook of a leg shattered by misfortune. This isn't for you to see....

Because it is embarrassing? Or a protective yearning to keep him naive and free of fear?

@YIPPINGKIT​

 

[YIPPINGKIT]

She bristles when he enters. Yippingkit supposes he should understand. ThunderClan's civil war is at its zenith now, a corona of terror lain upon the head of its new tyrant. Howlingstar had promised him peace and then she'd died. Admittedly, Yippingkit does not expect his siblings to last much longer than she — if she was a leader, a cat at the height of her power, and she'd died like anyone else.... He does not want to picture himself following in her footsteps. It is this image that he cowers from now, seeking asylum in the den of leaf clippings and poultices. When Doecry bristles at him, he bristles back.

But her fur lies flat in time. It is clear that neither of them had expected the other in this den, wreathed in its sheer chiffon protection. Yippingkit can feel its fragility; wonders if he ought to claw through it, but Doecry speaks to him and it puts hesitance in him. "You okay?" she asks, and he does not answer at first. His twin-hued gaze rests upon the limb she tries to hide, catching only wisps of its destruction; a scar here, a twist there. It is shadowed so that he cannot tell exactly the extent of the injury (not that he would have been much good at it anyway, a mere kitten, but alas).

Finally he finds her face again, as if only now remembering that faces are generally where you should look to talk to people. "'M fine," Yippingkit answers, because this is the answer he always gives to this question. In truth, he is afraid — desperately afraid — but his fear is so overwhelming, he can hardly begin to name it; can hardly recognize it for what it is in the first place. It is his sky, and his clouds, and his stars; it lives in each sidelong glance his way, in each twitching claw or flash of teeth. He feels hunted. Has always felt hunted, really. Worst of all, he feels that Baying Hound was right — that the world is out to get him, that he has made a mistake in enduring it for even this long. But he persists anyway. He would survive, no matter what it takes.

Yippingkit blinks. "I thought about Howlingstar. What happened to your leg?" Two seemingly unconnected ideas. He sits, still a tail-length away from his sister (the word feels wrong applied to her, still), fixing her sharply in his canid gaze.

𝐈 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐈𝐓 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄, 𝐔𝐍𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐘 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄 !

• ooc.
  
• YIPPINGKIT —— kit of thunderclan . baying hound x duke . littermate to howlkit and thrashkit, sibling to many ✦ penned by meghan
  
  ✦ a hulking black smoke with low white. striking dual-toned eyes. fluctuates between total apathy and a need to fit in; difficult to befriend, and does not trust easily. unsure of thunderclan as a whole.
  ✦ intersex, nb masculine / he they pronouns / 04 moons & ages every 5th
  ✦ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / underline & tag account when attacking
  —— will start fights / will not flee / may show mercy. a kitten, he can hardly defend himself, but that will not stop him from trying. apt against opponents his age thanks to his sheer size.
  
  ✦ "speech", thoughts, all opinions are in character
  ✦ full biography — msg on discord for plots — toyhouse
  

• 

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[doepath ࿔]

They linger like opposing urchins, prickly and uncertain... it reminds her of days spent listening for the scrabbling of her mother's paw-steps in the distance. Of the hissing thunder of her fury when they'd dared to wander outside of the nest. In stripes of lightning and dappling of snow-drops, maybe Yippingkit has those same memories too. Doecry doesn't think to ask, doesn't dare to mention her name (it still stings, like glass shards stuck against the roof of her mouth). They must miss her... and the fawn she-cat thinks that maybe she misses her too, despite it all.

He's not so unalike his siblings... in their sour, quiet demeanor. Scrutinizing and careful... leveled-gazes that pry for more than she's willing to share. Even in her best efforts to keep him firmly removed from her struggles, he isn't blind (ironic, she knows). His answer is rigid and rehearsed in the same way they all have been... they move like puppets, uncertain of their autonomy and frightened by it all the same. Mother had never been good for fostering the self... for encouraging identity and choice. "It's okay if you're not," she mews, watching with an uncertain frown...

Was it her own projection that prompted it.. or a suspicion that a kit so tiny couldn't possibly be fine with the circumstances? "I thought about Howlingstar." No amount of polite smiles will make that sentence easier to hear... she doesn't try, offering a sympathetic hum instead. The thought lasts a fraction of a second though, Yippingkit leaping between one subject to the next with a speed she finds alarming.

It was a question she'd asked about a hundred times between states of wakefulness. The details leading up to it are fuzzy, though the evidence is clear and starkly in contrast to that foggy understanding. "It's nothing to.... be worried about," she answers, pausing in a lull to think of the words that could fill the place of the ones that elude her. "Just a little... messed up but it'll heal." What was it called when a bone was crushed... or damaged... or felt like barbs under the skin from- "Broken," she supplies helpfully.

please dont leave me ➺ in the dark

• DOEPATH
  thirteen month old warrior of thunderclan
  she/her fawn sepia with low white and yellow eyes

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