- Jun 9, 2022
- 551
- 276
- 63
There was little that he felt for others long-term. Blips in his mind, here and there. A flash of anger, a certain tolerance for some; all of it came and went with the wind, emotions blown up and away. Whether he dreams disdain or adoration, it leaves with the flow of time. Out of sight, out of mind. A certain soul hardly registers once the shapes of a face is out of mind. As long as you're away, it doesn't matter to him. Insignificant. Forest overrun by pinching mites. Biting and shaping at each other— not his problem.
The scrawny Windclan leader was no different. A problem at present, and for no longer. She means nothing to him. A brute to those who serve her and to those who don't. When should they ever cross paths? Flea-bitten moor runner and star-spangled prophet. The two things were far, far apart. The lines of her face blur together and turn wretched, foul with the rhetoric oozing from that tongue. She slips into the void - out of sight, and that's the end. Her underlings follow, canvasses for blood-stained claws. Delusional, some dare to seem content. It's a pitiable thing. He can imagine it, the sins creeping along their spine, a scratching at the back of their head. Wrong, wrong. It was funny. His teeth had bared in the beginnings of snicker. There'd been a crinkling of the eyes. Giddy, he'd pressed closer to him, Mallowlark, and he'd looked into those eyes. Twin silver.
Wrong. Something was different. He was leaving. Why? I have to go— His smile had dropped. Crestfallen. With her. Oh.
His mind spins. How could he— embodiment of the sun, the stars, the moon. Light kept safe in sound in this very vessel. Pale as a ghost, paws dipped in poison, Mesmerizing. How— with such a terrible thing. Tiny, furious storm, sizzling fury. They were— they both— I'm not like her, he says. He doesn't understand. "What?” He sounds small.
Gone too soon, soon.
The next few moments pass by. Gaps in time, bouts of fuzzy-static. Blood roars in his ears. These few still crawl among them. Smoke stench masked by summer blooms. They do not work, he was right. All smog and nothing— no one, to make it the slightest bit bearable. Blank stare straight ahead. Everything and nothing at once. It stings. It burns. Claws linger at his face, dangerous.
His paws lead him home, a mindless sort of thing. Lips remain sewn thin and shut. Camp is more dull than usual. Any semblance of light is snuffed out. And the moon, it sings its melancholy song. Lonely, so lonely up there, a vast ocean of deep night. Speckled silver lies so close, yet so far. A distant neighbor.
He only hopes...
The scrawny Windclan leader was no different. A problem at present, and for no longer. She means nothing to him. A brute to those who serve her and to those who don't. When should they ever cross paths? Flea-bitten moor runner and star-spangled prophet. The two things were far, far apart. The lines of her face blur together and turn wretched, foul with the rhetoric oozing from that tongue. She slips into the void - out of sight, and that's the end. Her underlings follow, canvasses for blood-stained claws. Delusional, some dare to seem content. It's a pitiable thing. He can imagine it, the sins creeping along their spine, a scratching at the back of their head. Wrong, wrong. It was funny. His teeth had bared in the beginnings of snicker. There'd been a crinkling of the eyes. Giddy, he'd pressed closer to him, Mallowlark, and he'd looked into those eyes. Twin silver.
Wrong. Something was different. He was leaving. Why? I have to go— His smile had dropped. Crestfallen. With her. Oh.
His mind spins. How could he— embodiment of the sun, the stars, the moon. Light kept safe in sound in this very vessel. Pale as a ghost, paws dipped in poison, Mesmerizing. How— with such a terrible thing. Tiny, furious storm, sizzling fury. They were— they both— I'm not like her, he says. He doesn't understand. "What?” He sounds small.
Gone too soon, soon.
The next few moments pass by. Gaps in time, bouts of fuzzy-static. Blood roars in his ears. These few still crawl among them. Smoke stench masked by summer blooms. They do not work, he was right. All smog and nothing— no one, to make it the slightest bit bearable. Blank stare straight ahead. Everything and nothing at once. It stings. It burns. Claws linger at his face, dangerous.
His paws lead him home, a mindless sort of thing. Lips remain sewn thin and shut. Camp is more dull than usual. Any semblance of light is snuffed out. And the moon, it sings its melancholy song. Lonely, so lonely up there, a vast ocean of deep night. Speckled silver lies so close, yet so far. A distant neighbor.
He only hopes...
