LIFE OF THE SPIDER [ *ೃ༄ ] GRAY HAIR ?!

Mossthorn

Mossthorn

*ೃ༄
Jun 9, 2024
22
4
3

Mossthorn is a not a vain she cat. She doesn’t spend hours of the day searching for any reflective surface she can, looking to catch glimpses of herself. Today, however, was different. If anyone were to go looking for her, for she wasn’t on a patrol, and she wasn’t in the nursery she so loved, they would find her hunched over the sun warmed pool, gray eyes narrowed and paw lifted to touch her muzzle, using her claws to part hairs, leaning in closer to the pool so she could see better.

The rustling of dry grass alerts her to the presence of another. Reluctantly, she tears her gaze away from the water, eyebrows knitted together in obvious distress. "Oh Coldbite… thank the stars you’re here" she beckons him closer with a swooping motion of her paws, several times actually in order to display how urgent it was. "I need you to look at something and tell me darling… this can’t be a gray hair can it?" she lifts her paw to her face again, tapping the spot she could have sworn she had seen it earlier. "Oh please tell me it’s not! I’m not ready to join the elders yet"

// please wait for @COLDBITE to post first
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( .ೃ࿐ ) watch what happens next

  • MOSSTHORN WINDCLAN WARRIOR ; SHE / HER; SISTER TO TBD ; MATE TO COLDBITE
    A feisty she cat with a heart of gold. Her appearance is befitting her tunneler status, as she stands shorter than most, and her sleek black fur excels at repelling the dirt that she shifts through. Her eyes are such a light blue color that they appear gray and upon her pelt she wears many scars, testaments to the battles she has fought in her lifetime.
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    ✦ Peaceful and healing powerplay permitted, no killing, maiming, or injuring without permission
    ✦ Skilled & experienced in combat. Fights dirty.
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Coldbite could probably count the number of times he's seen his own reflection on a single paw. He doesn't really go out of his way to do it, and so it rarely happens—maybe once or twice when he's hunting near an especially glassy puddle, that he can think of off the top of his head. And normally, he wouldn't count his mate among the ranks of those who preen and pluck at themselves until they look like birds, puffed up for the winter and standing on one leg. So, logically, when he spots Mossthorn perched over the sun-warmed pool, peering with narrowed silver eyes at her reflection, it gives him pause.

She looks up immediately when he lumbers over, not that he'd expected any less. His mate is admirably observant, and he's not a quiet cat, what with his heavy paws and broud shoulders ready to rattle the dry grasses of their moor. What he doesn't expect is the way she beckons him over almost frantically with a crook of her paw, compelling the tom to make his heavy tracks closer. His brows knit together an increment across his stony face, dark slate-blue eyes narrowing imperceptibly with some distant second cousin of worry. The sensation is dulled, as most things of such a nature are for him, but concerningly present for one so rarely burdened.

He lets a slow huff of relief out of his nose when he realizes it's just concerns about ... gray hairs? Coldbite blinks slowly, contemplating his mate's face in a way he doesn't often do. She is simply so assuredly present, be that hundreds of tail-lengths away below the earth or right at his side on patrol, he doesn't often stare at her. Leave such frivolities to the young cats, he thinks, who have all the time in the world to waste on flattering one another. It's Mossthorn's strength and cleverness he admires most, after all, rather than her beauty—but some long-buried social compass tells him that's not what she wants to hear.

" Of course it's not. " He peers at her face again, as if double-checking. To be frank, he does not see the importance, nor does he mind whether there is indeed a gray hair or not. What matters is making Mossthorn happy, and if that includes some potential obscuring of facts, so be it. " Maybe it's just one of those ... pretty freckles of yours, " Coldbite mrrows, his gruff voice sounding somewhat awkward as he tries to sound charming. He's not used to praising how his mate looks, rather than extolling her virtues in hunting, tracking, or fighting. But he'll try.
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OOC : —
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Buckfire is not a tom who would consider himself vain, although he grooms and figuratively preens his feathers a fair bit. There isn't much to his appearance, really; he's not one of those cats with silky smooth locks of fur and shimmering eyes of blue. He's a simple chocolate tabby with short hair and a few scars here and there ( though he embraces them fully ). However, he knows that he is a good-looking feline in his own right. There was no denying it; his signature smirk was enough to make a cat swoon... most of the time. These WindClanners did not seem to easily fall for his charms.

A small bird dangles from Buckfire's jaws, shown off proudly as he is finding himself a bit of an avid hunter nowadays. Flanked by @SCORCHSTORM , he finds Mossthorn at the edge of the sun-warmed pool fretting about gray hairs. Coldbite is beside her, reassuring his mate that she hasn't anything to worry herself about. Buckfire wasn't close enough to notice anything, but Mossthorn was an older she-cat. It wouldn't be surprising for her to show signs of aging. Who were any of them to comment on a molly's appearance, though? It certainly wouldn't be him; he wanted his ears to remain intact.

Instead, the moor runner decides to mrrow, "You've got nothin' to worry about, Mossthorn. Yer' a spring chicken." Buckfire, of course, doesn't utilize a tone that is anything other than friendly. She and Coldbite were a nice couple; no drama, no frills, just love. Such a relationship seemed ideal... if it was even achievable. The chocolate tabby doubts that he will experience something like that in his lifetime, a fact that he came to accept a long time ago.

𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 ✹ . + ˚ · 　 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋
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