- Jan 12, 2023
- 163
- 57
- 28
she does not face her fragility. it lingers at the back of her mind like a coiled viper, untouched and ever staring, a presence that prickles the skin beneath alabaster curls that she never quite shakes despite how desperately she looks away. it coils around her neck and steals the breath from her nose, and still, she does not look at it. not even when it’s restrictions gaunts her bones, keeps her petite and dull - coated, leaves her mother to the dogs.. reality was belief, and if shellpaw didn’t think about it, maybe her body would get the memo — maybe it would catch up, grow, toughen. maybe if she pretends, whispers it to the babbling brooks and wills it hard into existence, she could be.. like cicadaflight, or claythorn. or iciclefang, when not tempered by the nursery’s milkscent.
she is not as tall and spry as cicadaflight. she is not as broad or powerful as claythorn. she falters behind even her brother in the few precious moons in which a cats body is supposed to shape, still too low to the ground, still held upon delicate paws that shift and tilt inward upon a bodyworn crouch. petalwoven coat does not conceal the frailty of her to a soul — cinnamon - toned eyes drawn dark at deep, obvious sockets and what little expression drawn to lifeless feature are as quick to go as they come. eyes linger in camp, at gatherings, upon marking the fading border scent ; pity. disgust - twisted, in some. even through the rheum of her eyes, she could tell when they were looking, pondering on her ever dribbling nose and downtilted ears.
she doesn’t know what was wrong with her, so she imagines nothing is. she was released from the medicine den things were fine, everything was fine. the stars ease sickly pink pads into apprenticeship only for her to hit another wall — to stumble over paws that do not take, over limbs that tremble upon a back - forth walk to skyclan’s border. she does not mention it, not negatively, even through the broken pinwhistle of her breath when those eyes find her and ask you okay? she was. she had to be. moonbeam had said she was okay, and she didn’t feel any different. at least, not any worse than she had in her early moons ; not any worse than usual. her day - by - day patter of weariness slowed paws and awkward puffs of air from a maw always hanging half open. it was becoming clear to her that her usual, though, seemed to be.. not enough.
improvement had been slow, fractional, even — some will simper it’s only been two moons, but shellpaw still wakes up with a fluttering breath, wobbles on soft paws, ducks and run at the sight of her mentor hitting the ground, ribboning blood into the grassy meadowlands. her mind turns the picture like prey in its paws, razorclawed grip that keeps her awake and wondering if she would ever be able to do what cicadaflight had done — if she could ever run an enemy with fangs drawn, tilt her skull upwards into the eyes of sure death. but then images of a too - wide mouth, brimming uglily yellowed teeth and thick, lulling tongue flashes behind paperthin lids and, and..
she could. she.. could. she had to.
she can still taste the iron on her tongue when she finds @MIDNIGHTPAW at smoldering midday, fur mussed and dappled with a smattering of old, wilting flowers that does little to help her pitiful image — feels her own breath grown hot when she asks for a spar, fuzzy ears tipped low at either side of her head. she was not fragile. she wasnt, and she could prove it. pelt still clinging to the thick scent of moonbeam’s medicinal honey, she finds her way after the leggy apprentice once she agrees to an offshot part of camp ; lets the molly guide her, lets the beginnings of a warbling confidence begin to grow in the pit of her chest. she could do this, she just.. had to get over her mind. the fear, the paralyzing, whale - eyed fear. then, she wouldn’t have to see her mother, her mentor, die like that again. they could keep their lives, live long, happy..
she tries to remember the last time she’d seen lichenstar happy.
a sharp word brings her out of dazed thoughts, blinking suddenly towards the femme’s ember - streaked face as she shrunk into an assumed battle position, ” suh — sorry, i’m ready. “ she says despite not hearing a word beyond the bubble of her all encompassing daydreams and red - stained memories. lilac capped paws flex against the dirt, claws firmly sheathed. her combat training had been sparse ( nonexistent, really ), but shellpaw only figured it was pretty instinctual, fighting.. she just had to do it. so she does. the girl tucks her head, pushing off her hind legs with a visible tremble and aims to hurl directly at midnightpaw’s exposed chest. that was what claythorn had done when robinheart was attacked, it had to work.
she is not as tall and spry as cicadaflight. she is not as broad or powerful as claythorn. she falters behind even her brother in the few precious moons in which a cats body is supposed to shape, still too low to the ground, still held upon delicate paws that shift and tilt inward upon a bodyworn crouch. petalwoven coat does not conceal the frailty of her to a soul — cinnamon - toned eyes drawn dark at deep, obvious sockets and what little expression drawn to lifeless feature are as quick to go as they come. eyes linger in camp, at gatherings, upon marking the fading border scent ; pity. disgust - twisted, in some. even through the rheum of her eyes, she could tell when they were looking, pondering on her ever dribbling nose and downtilted ears.
she doesn’t know what was wrong with her, so she imagines nothing is. she was released from the medicine den things were fine, everything was fine. the stars ease sickly pink pads into apprenticeship only for her to hit another wall — to stumble over paws that do not take, over limbs that tremble upon a back - forth walk to skyclan’s border. she does not mention it, not negatively, even through the broken pinwhistle of her breath when those eyes find her and ask you okay? she was. she had to be. moonbeam had said she was okay, and she didn’t feel any different. at least, not any worse than she had in her early moons ; not any worse than usual. her day - by - day patter of weariness slowed paws and awkward puffs of air from a maw always hanging half open. it was becoming clear to her that her usual, though, seemed to be.. not enough.
improvement had been slow, fractional, even — some will simper it’s only been two moons, but shellpaw still wakes up with a fluttering breath, wobbles on soft paws, ducks and run at the sight of her mentor hitting the ground, ribboning blood into the grassy meadowlands. her mind turns the picture like prey in its paws, razorclawed grip that keeps her awake and wondering if she would ever be able to do what cicadaflight had done — if she could ever run an enemy with fangs drawn, tilt her skull upwards into the eyes of sure death. but then images of a too - wide mouth, brimming uglily yellowed teeth and thick, lulling tongue flashes behind paperthin lids and, and..
she could. she.. could. she had to.
she can still taste the iron on her tongue when she finds @MIDNIGHTPAW at smoldering midday, fur mussed and dappled with a smattering of old, wilting flowers that does little to help her pitiful image — feels her own breath grown hot when she asks for a spar, fuzzy ears tipped low at either side of her head. she was not fragile. she wasnt, and she could prove it. pelt still clinging to the thick scent of moonbeam’s medicinal honey, she finds her way after the leggy apprentice once she agrees to an offshot part of camp ; lets the molly guide her, lets the beginnings of a warbling confidence begin to grow in the pit of her chest. she could do this, she just.. had to get over her mind. the fear, the paralyzing, whale - eyed fear. then, she wouldn’t have to see her mother, her mentor, die like that again. they could keep their lives, live long, happy..
she tries to remember the last time she’d seen lichenstar happy.
a sharp word brings her out of dazed thoughts, blinking suddenly towards the femme’s ember - streaked face as she shrunk into an assumed battle position, ” suh — sorry, i’m ready. “ she says despite not hearing a word beyond the bubble of her all encompassing daydreams and red - stained memories. lilac capped paws flex against the dirt, claws firmly sheathed. her combat training had been sparse ( nonexistent, really ), but shellpaw only figured it was pretty instinctual, fighting.. she just had to do it. so she does. the girl tucks her head, pushing off her hind legs with a visible tremble and aims to hurl directly at midnightpaw’s exposed chest. that was what claythorn had done when robinheart was attacked, it had to work.
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frail alabaster molly with lilac striping and watery amber eyes.SHELLPAW 𓆉 SHE / HER. SEVEN MOONS OLD, APPRENTICE OF RIVERCLAN, MENTORED BY LICHENSTAR ; SMELLS LIKE SALT & RIVER BLOOMS. HAZECLOUD xx LICHENSTAR, NIECE TOSMOKESTAR. PENNED BY ANTLERS-----------------° ❀ ⋆she is pallid ; platinum splotched with ribbons of dovey lilac curls, wisped ends like memories of a distant shore and plush enough to conceal the juts of malnutrition beneath. tufted elderdown fur conceals a body worn fragile by tumultuous youth, too thin in some places and round with baby fat in others. her face is short - muzzled, framed half mast by eyes coined rheumy, rosen amber. the anemic cold pink - purple at tender paws and nose tell a lifetime of sickness, further made obvious by the feathering weakness in half - whispered tones.
