- Dec 2, 2022
- 168
- 50
- 28
The cold had finally seeped in: between her toes, on the tips of her ear, in the corners of her crooked mouth - a frosty welcome back to the clans, even if it had been far more of a winterscape in the icy world of the mountains. However, for the first time in a wandering moon, Needledrift wished for the mugger summer ShadowClan days, days that hadn't made her long for a white-and-orange coat to keep her warm... a white and orange coat that didn't belong to either her or her clan...
Two cycles of the moon had passed. ShadowClan was colder now, too, almost as cold as the frigid air atop the mountain, though here there were no fluffy SkyClan deputies to keep her smaller body warm. Here in the swamp, where Needledrift belonged, it was just her and the freezing ponds and the people she had left behind to find meaning in a death she couldn't begin to process.
She thought she had found Heavybranch in the swathes of lungwort they had found... that Little Wolf had found.... but returning to ShadowClan - a ShadowClan where Heavybranch still did not laugh or chew up pigeons between sentences of long-winded stories - placed that dreadful stone back in her stomach, along with another weight on her shoulders.
Heavybranch was still dead. They could save everyone else but the reason Needledrift left specifically was still dead, and would stay that way no matter how much lungwort they had brought back. Needledrift had abandoned ShadowClan for little more than an attempt to get away from it, and the thought of her abandoning her clan and wrapping herself up in an epic quest at the expense of her apprentices only made her feel worse.
It was an honestly selfish feeling. A selfish feeling that tangled up inside her and threatened to choke her with all of its green storm-cloud smog - a tornado caught inside her throat. It felt as if she could cough and hack but no matter how much she wheeled and gagged, the storm would still rage and tear at the tender flesh of her vocal cords, all battering winds and sirens in her head, only for no rain to fall and no tears to follow.
Sitting safely in ShadowClan camp, surrounded by clanmates she loved and missed... she felt like that tornado in her throat could turn her inside out and swallow her whole and nobody would be the wiser. There were cats to save and dote over, relationships to refresh, ceremonies to complete, life to live.
But Heavybranch wasn't living. Little Wolf wasn't living.... and Needledrift couldn't do anything to fix it.
The clan bustled around her, a beast lumbering in the woods, slowly waking at the promise of food and living, but Needledrift couldn't bring herself to do much more than settle in a corner of the camp, her hindlegs growing cold and numb as she conformed to the rusting pine needles she thought she missed so much. Now, she only missed the feline-tinged scent of taller pines to the south... @chilledstar
Two cycles of the moon had passed. ShadowClan was colder now, too, almost as cold as the frigid air atop the mountain, though here there were no fluffy SkyClan deputies to keep her smaller body warm. Here in the swamp, where Needledrift belonged, it was just her and the freezing ponds and the people she had left behind to find meaning in a death she couldn't begin to process.
She thought she had found Heavybranch in the swathes of lungwort they had found... that Little Wolf had found.... but returning to ShadowClan - a ShadowClan where Heavybranch still did not laugh or chew up pigeons between sentences of long-winded stories - placed that dreadful stone back in her stomach, along with another weight on her shoulders.
Heavybranch was still dead. They could save everyone else but the reason Needledrift left specifically was still dead, and would stay that way no matter how much lungwort they had brought back. Needledrift had abandoned ShadowClan for little more than an attempt to get away from it, and the thought of her abandoning her clan and wrapping herself up in an epic quest at the expense of her apprentices only made her feel worse.
It was an honestly selfish feeling. A selfish feeling that tangled up inside her and threatened to choke her with all of its green storm-cloud smog - a tornado caught inside her throat. It felt as if she could cough and hack but no matter how much she wheeled and gagged, the storm would still rage and tear at the tender flesh of her vocal cords, all battering winds and sirens in her head, only for no rain to fall and no tears to follow.
Sitting safely in ShadowClan camp, surrounded by clanmates she loved and missed... she felt like that tornado in her throat could turn her inside out and swallow her whole and nobody would be the wiser. There were cats to save and dote over, relationships to refresh, ceremonies to complete, life to live.
But Heavybranch wasn't living. Little Wolf wasn't living.... and Needledrift couldn't do anything to fix it.
The clan bustled around her, a beast lumbering in the woods, slowly waking at the promise of food and living, but Needledrift couldn't bring herself to do much more than settle in a corner of the camp, her hindlegs growing cold and numb as she conformed to the rusting pine needles she thought she missed so much. Now, she only missed the feline-tinged scent of taller pines to the south... @chilledstar