- Apr 30, 2023
- 230
- 93
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Snow has consumed WindClan's territory with the selfsame hunger of a flame.
Thriftfeather sits in camp—not in the mouth of the nursery, but near enough that he could slink back into it in the time of a blink if he must. The snow-light, even during the soft-edged lake of early morning, even in the gentle down of camp, forces his eyes into a squint. The chilling winds are strong enough to spiral strands of Thriftfeather's golden pelt skywards. Leafbare has already shown its white fangs and now it bites.
His breath fogs before him—twin threads that dance as ephemeral as smoke—before the wind steals that away from him, too.
Reprieve is behind him. The nursery will not warm him completely, but it will not further any harm to him. And yet Thriftfeather endures the full brunt cold for a simple reason: if he intends to go out in this, he must be able to tolerate it. If he is to give his all to WindClan—and hadn't he committed himself to this?—he is first to prepare himself.
(Or else he is to find excuses to avoid acknowledging that he has stalled himself in wondering at a junction—to risk cold he couldn't so easily retreat from or risk judgemental eyes turned his way as fresh-kill depletes.)
Thriftfeather's slitted eyes dart, seeking distraction from a distraction. Camp doesn't buzz to hive-life as it does most mornings, but familiar silhouettes still shake into movement. Thriftfeather shifts into a stretch and then into standing—ignores the way his body warns against something closing around him for the knowledge that it is nothing but flurries against his whiskers—and searches for, if not a face with kind regard, then one without hostility.
"Mallow—Mallowtail!" The name catches somewhere in Thriftfeather's throat as if it is wholly unfamiliar rather than underused.
He speaks louder than he normally would have to be heard beneath the dampening snow. Between them and held in the tremor of Thriftfeather's voice: a gulf of uncertainty. Thriftfeather steps through it with the same caution as one may test thin ice.
"You—" He stops, swallows a cold-made crack in his voice, and starts again, "Are you going to go out in this?"
Thriftfeather sits in camp—not in the mouth of the nursery, but near enough that he could slink back into it in the time of a blink if he must. The snow-light, even during the soft-edged lake of early morning, even in the gentle down of camp, forces his eyes into a squint. The chilling winds are strong enough to spiral strands of Thriftfeather's golden pelt skywards. Leafbare has already shown its white fangs and now it bites.
His breath fogs before him—twin threads that dance as ephemeral as smoke—before the wind steals that away from him, too.
Reprieve is behind him. The nursery will not warm him completely, but it will not further any harm to him. And yet Thriftfeather endures the full brunt cold for a simple reason: if he intends to go out in this, he must be able to tolerate it. If he is to give his all to WindClan—and hadn't he committed himself to this?—he is first to prepare himself.
(Or else he is to find excuses to avoid acknowledging that he has stalled himself in wondering at a junction—to risk cold he couldn't so easily retreat from or risk judgemental eyes turned his way as fresh-kill depletes.)
Thriftfeather's slitted eyes dart, seeking distraction from a distraction. Camp doesn't buzz to hive-life as it does most mornings, but familiar silhouettes still shake into movement. Thriftfeather shifts into a stretch and then into standing—ignores the way his body warns against something closing around him for the knowledge that it is nothing but flurries against his whiskers—and searches for, if not a face with kind regard, then one without hostility.
"Mallow—Mallowtail!" The name catches somewhere in Thriftfeather's throat as if it is wholly unfamiliar rather than underused.
He speaks louder than he normally would have to be heard beneath the dampening snow. Between them and held in the tremor of Thriftfeather's voice: a gulf of uncertainty. Thriftfeather steps through it with the same caution as one may test thin ice.
"You—" He stops, swallows a cold-made crack in his voice, and starts again, "Are you going to go out in this?"
WINDCLAN QUEEN ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 
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