- Aug 1, 2023
- 140
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Houndstride had unsettled him when he'd first challenged him on the border, young and brash and still harlequined with his father's ghostly blood. He's grown since then, stretched ever - further skyward and felt muscle blossom where there was once only wastrel bone and flesh. He feels mutated, out of the chrysalis too early—half - grown and awkward, a boy wearing an ugly mask of a handsome face. When he catches Sandpaw's eyes flicking towards his sister's pretty face, or Moonpaw bringing her another little bundle of flowers, he feels ever more unsightly.
Is he doomed to this forever? he wonders. Will he spend the rest of his life a cheap imitation, bought half - price and turning green at the water's touch, brine filling his belly? Will he spend forever watching prettier faces pass by, living in the glow of his siblings' reflections, a foxed mirror?
He avoids his reflection, and is glad of it that his unusual fishing methods rarely call for such contemplations in unbroken waves. He does not bother to groom his unkempt curls, letting them set in dried tangles flecked with mud and reed. Why should he bother? A piece of crow - food garlanded with flowers is still crow - food. When the Clan gathers together to tuck decorations into shiny fur, frame pretty faces with glittering scales or fragrant blossoms, he finds reasons to be gone.
Houndstride still unsettles him.
There is, however, a certain peace to be found in looking into the scarred and shredded face, marred by unsightly swathes of flesh, and not be confronted with beauty. It is utterly inescapable in RiverClan, and so their lonely two - man patrol is a blissful respite from the painful glare of glittering crystal. The prodigal warrior, however, will find no such relief in Cicadapaw's own visage; unbeknownst to him, gone unnoticed in bitter washes of self - loathing, he is growing into his father's face. Slowly, painfully, so haltingly it's barely noticeable—in a couple turns of the moon it will assail the eyes all at once, the death - mask of the perished leader, handsome and frightening.
For now, though, he is comprised of elements that singularly could be beautiful but are juxtaposed just so that they become incredibly unsightly. Cicadastar's hooked, Roman muzzle swells disproportionate on his son's face; starry eyes turn bugged and disturbing; tall and regal ears droop overlarge; long limbs appear hunger - wracked and eerie, uncanny. Like some thing crawled into Cicadastar's left - behind skin like a shed and made an ill - fitting home.
" Were you here for the battle for Sunningrocks? " he interjects abruptly into the off - kilter silence, words piercing glassily through the mounting cloud of self - hatred. No relief on either side of his face; one wears Smokestar's amber eye paired with Cicadastar's white mask, and the other bears a gaze of dreadfully familiar salt - blue. Cicadapaw blinks, overcompensates for his bluntness, brusqueness a learned behavior from his nursery - bound mentor. " I mean, I hear it was kind of a big ...... thing. Deal? Thing. "
// @HOUNDSTRIDE. !!
Is he doomed to this forever? he wonders. Will he spend the rest of his life a cheap imitation, bought half - price and turning green at the water's touch, brine filling his belly? Will he spend forever watching prettier faces pass by, living in the glow of his siblings' reflections, a foxed mirror?
He avoids his reflection, and is glad of it that his unusual fishing methods rarely call for such contemplations in unbroken waves. He does not bother to groom his unkempt curls, letting them set in dried tangles flecked with mud and reed. Why should he bother? A piece of crow - food garlanded with flowers is still crow - food. When the Clan gathers together to tuck decorations into shiny fur, frame pretty faces with glittering scales or fragrant blossoms, he finds reasons to be gone.
Houndstride still unsettles him.
There is, however, a certain peace to be found in looking into the scarred and shredded face, marred by unsightly swathes of flesh, and not be confronted with beauty. It is utterly inescapable in RiverClan, and so their lonely two - man patrol is a blissful respite from the painful glare of glittering crystal. The prodigal warrior, however, will find no such relief in Cicadapaw's own visage; unbeknownst to him, gone unnoticed in bitter washes of self - loathing, he is growing into his father's face. Slowly, painfully, so haltingly it's barely noticeable—in a couple turns of the moon it will assail the eyes all at once, the death - mask of the perished leader, handsome and frightening.
For now, though, he is comprised of elements that singularly could be beautiful but are juxtaposed just so that they become incredibly unsightly. Cicadastar's hooked, Roman muzzle swells disproportionate on his son's face; starry eyes turn bugged and disturbing; tall and regal ears droop overlarge; long limbs appear hunger - wracked and eerie, uncanny. Like some thing crawled into Cicadastar's left - behind skin like a shed and made an ill - fitting home.
" Were you here for the battle for Sunningrocks? " he interjects abruptly into the off - kilter silence, words piercing glassily through the mounting cloud of self - hatred. No relief on either side of his face; one wears Smokestar's amber eye paired with Cicadastar's white mask, and the other bears a gaze of dreadfully familiar salt - blue. Cicadapaw blinks, overcompensates for his bluntness, brusqueness a learned behavior from his nursery - bound mentor. " I mean, I hear it was kind of a big ...... thing. Deal? Thing. "
// @HOUNDSTRIDE. !!
" speech "
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