- Mar 14, 2024
- 112
- 12
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Hushed were even the stars, hanging high above pensive cloud and still night. Celandine often enjoyed star-watching, though she hardly had the knowledge of the constellations and the piety of the strange wild-cats of the forests and the moors. Starclan... Are there really cats up there? The young girl pondered, and the thought seemed impossible in of itself. There was no loamy earth for felines to run upon nor meandering streams for them to drink from. She had only seen long-winged eagles fly up there, trailing along impermeable cloud that seemed too light to even hold them. Nocturnal creatures, from the vigilant barn owl to the scuttering dormouse, flitted abound the Horseplace and brushing lightly against Celandine's keen senses. They circled carefully around her, not truly avoiding her but rather going about their business and daring not to wander too close to the beast of needle-sharp claw and ivory-marked fang. She did so as well, taking only what could be afforded and never more. Quiescent moon, slivered crescent and waxing poetic out of silence, stared back at the feline at the open window.
"Do you ever wonder what those Wind-cats are doing now?" Pensive tone sounded through the darkness, as the golden spotted tabby turned towards her dear friend Grave. The pitch-colored tom had arrived stealthily as always, but she would recognize the almost-nonexistent pitter-patter of Grave's footfall. If Celandine were to describe the dully-hued black feline, it would be funerary, in a sense - elegiac, as tensed and almost plaintive as the mourning crows and doves. (Perhaps the name Grave was appropriate for him, then?) Still, the sunshine appreciated the night, and so did she to the cat so opposite to her. It was the quietude he exuded that never tired the molly, as it was a nice break from many the mayhem and dissidence of her home. "I want to know what's out there." She continued, usually bubbly and chirping tone now a nocturne of its former self, as though it were a single song lilting on young dawn. The rosette tabby had never wandered past the boundary of the fence, as though it did not confine her within bough-like grasp but only served as the marker of the wild unknown, where her family and her friends could not save her. It intrigued her more than anything, as was the stupidity of juvenility to waive all consequence in pursuit of the fleeting thrill.
@GRAVE
"Do you ever wonder what those Wind-cats are doing now?" Pensive tone sounded through the darkness, as the golden spotted tabby turned towards her dear friend Grave. The pitch-colored tom had arrived stealthily as always, but she would recognize the almost-nonexistent pitter-patter of Grave's footfall. If Celandine were to describe the dully-hued black feline, it would be funerary, in a sense - elegiac, as tensed and almost plaintive as the mourning crows and doves. (Perhaps the name Grave was appropriate for him, then?) Still, the sunshine appreciated the night, and so did she to the cat so opposite to her. It was the quietude he exuded that never tired the molly, as it was a nice break from many the mayhem and dissidence of her home. "I want to know what's out there." She continued, usually bubbly and chirping tone now a nocturne of its former self, as though it were a single song lilting on young dawn. The rosette tabby had never wandered past the boundary of the fence, as though it did not confine her within bough-like grasp but only served as the marker of the wild unknown, where her family and her friends could not save her. It intrigued her more than anything, as was the stupidity of juvenility to waive all consequence in pursuit of the fleeting thrill.
@GRAVE
