private MILK CARTON KIDS — thriftfeather

[BLUEFROST]

She's wandered too far, she knows, but every step is aimless. She's beyond WindClan's scent-line. The grasses have gone from stubbly and scorched under her feet to stiff, sharp, browned by the sun to a crisp. Prey-scent has vanished. She is too far. "StarClan, what is this place," she mutters, her voice cracking. Her throat aches with dust, thirst-parched. There is no water to be found here. This is where DuskClan lives, though, she knows—and any moment, she is risking attack.

A broad, thick-pelted tabby pelt moves gilded against the scrubland. Bluefrost stiffens, her jaw clenching, her teeth beginning to tingle. She tastes something like metal in her mouth; something like regret. "Thriftfeather," she utters, and she crouches, submissive, her ears flattening against her skull. "Thriftfeather, is... it is really you."

『 out of character. 』 ✧･ﾟ:* 『 about. 』

• ooc: @Thriftfeather
• 
• Bluekit . Bluepaw . Bluefrost, she/her w/ feminine terms.
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — 16 moons old, ages realistically on the 14th.
  — mentored by Sootstar ; mentoring Brackenpaw ; previously mentored n/a.
  — windclan warrior. sootstar x weaselclaw, gen 2.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  lh blue and white she-cat with emerald eyes. aloof, dignified, poised, haughty, composed, distant.
  
  

​

 

[Thriftfeather]

It isn't until Thriftfeather sees her again that he realizes the Bluefrost that had existed in his mind had become inaccurate. It is a subtle thing—the way she stands or the exact shape to her nose—something so small that Thriftfeather cannot remember what it had been that had been wrong in the first place. The correction takes that place in the time of a blink. Something flashes through his mind as he stops before her, be it the knowledge that this is a mistake or the knowledge that it is the only mistake he will not regret.

"You're already shorter than me," Although he wants his voice to leave him playful, it sounds impossibly strained to his own ears, His lungs feel weightless with relief; Thriftfeather had known he had missed Bluefrost dearly, but the depth of it is only now realized in its absence, "So you may as well get—just stand up, alright?"

There are a countless number of things that Thriftfeather has imagined he might say to Bluefrost but now, given the opportunity, he finds himself lacking in anything of substance. He wants to ask her where she had been—why she wasn't here, in DuskClan, or why he wasn't there. He wants to ask her about everything that has happened in her life during their time apart and he wants her to ask him the same. He shakes his head instead, a subtle motion, and then looks over his shoulder. Sharp doubt creeps in: that this meeting will be anything but bitter, that Bluefrost will even want to speak to him, that someone else will see and assume him disloyal rather than apathetic.

"It's—how long has it been?" Long enough for the snow to melt and the world to heat into Greenleaf, or long enough for hunger to shrink the muscle from his once fuller frame. The callouses have grown so thick on his pads that they have lightened the peachy skin to an off-white. Lonely moons had gone by, an entire season has passed, and yet Bluefrost doesn't seem to carry that time as heavily as Thriftfeather has. In another time, he would be jealous of that. For now, the old familiarity is a much needed comfort. ​

DUSKCLAN WARRIOR ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 15 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[BLUEFROST]

He is taller than her, and though hungry moons have made him lean, he is still Thriftfeather, still solid, lionlike in his gilded fur. Bluefrost's eyes settle on his paws, gripping the earth as though he might fly into the atmosphere, and travel up, up, to a broad pale chest, to stout whiskers, to the round newleaf green of his eyes. She drinks him in, memorizing every feature. "You're already shorter than me," he says, and though the words carry a burden, she feels herself relax under his gaze. "So you may as well get—just stand up, alright?"

Bluefrost slowly rises to her paws, but she dips her head in a formal mimicry of a curtsy. "Thriftfeather. You look... hungry," she notes, and gives her windswept silvered pelt a shake, as though she's unearthing a lifetime's worth of regrets like they're so much tunnel dust. "Perhaps I should have brought you a rabbit. I have not noticed much prey-scent this far out," she says, hesitantly, then wonders if she should have brought it up.

And then, she balks, wondering if Thriftfeather hates her for what she's done, for the betrayal of Sootstar. She wants to crouch again under the intensity of his gaze, but she does not, forces herself to remain upright. He has not attacked her; perhaps she is not his enemy after all. Perhaps the force of the friendship they'd once forged exists somewhere between them still, invisible as the air that draw into their lungs. "Many moons," she murmurs. "It is good to see you. I..." The WindClan warrior faces him awkwardly. "I have missed you in WindClan. It has not been the same. Actually..." She blinks, long and slow. "Everything has changed."

『 out of character. 』 ✧･ﾟ:* 『 about. 』

• ooc: —
• 
• Bluekit . Bluepaw . Bluefrost, she/her w/ feminine terms.
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — 16 moons old, ages realistically on the 14th.
  — mentored by Sootstar ; mentoring Brackenpaw ; previously mentored n/a.
  — windclan warrior. sootstar x weaselclaw, gen 2.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  lh blue and white she-cat with emerald eyes. aloof, dignified, poised, haughty, composed, distant.
  
  

​

 

[Thriftfeather]

The mention of even the possibility of prey brings moisture to Thriftfeather's otherwise dry mouth. There isn't much to be found in the scrub-briar—little chittering birds and bony lizards with long, snake-like tails. Nothing that Thriftfeather is adept at catching, despite an ever-looming desperation being an excellent motivator. WindClan lives in a place of plenty, or perhaps it has only been such before. He recalls smoke and the fear that had come to Thriftfeather with it, despite the lake of distance between him and the moors.

"No need," Thriftfeather swallows after he speaks and regrets his words almost as soon as they leave his mouth. Still, he continues, "There's a lot to be found, you just—it's about looking in the right spots."

Bluefrost's following admission shouldn't surprise Thriftfeather and yet the fur along his spine briefly bristles. It is a strange thing to him, that his presence is noticed and that his lack is felt by those he had known. He doesn't know if it would be like that here, were he to depart from DuskClan—he was another set of teeth to hunt and not someone to know. Regardless, Thriftfeather has made his choices.

"I've missed you too," It feels like an impossible thing to echo; Bluefrost had been the brave one for speaking it first. Thriftfeather, merely following, still feels his heart kick with a familiar fear of the sentiment being rejected. His own version of bravery has always been feeble, when compared to the capabilities of others, "I saw the smoke and I thought..."

Thriftfeather trails off. He had thought a lot of things—many of which aren't things he would ever want to admit to Bluefrost. He had seen the smoke and worried for WindClan, just as he had seen the smoke and mistook it for opportunity. Looking at Bluefrost now, Thriftfeather wonders how it was that he was ever capable of raising his claws against his former clanmates, despite the knowledge that, were he needed for it, he would be capable of such things once more.

"I was worried about you," Thriftfeather has long since had the realization that the entire truth of a thing has never come easily to him—the reminder stings something in his chest regardless. Talking to Bluefrost makes the whole of him feel like a reopened wound, the mingling of an old ache and a new relief, "I thought I should be doing something about it. As if," Thriftfeather scoffs as he speaks, and for a moment if feels as if all that time hadn't passed at all, "As if I could spit a fire out if I tried hard enough."​

DUSKCLAN WARRIOR ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 15 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[BLUEFROST]

Perhaps her doubt shows on her face as he tells her there’s no need to share prey—that there’s plenty to be found, if one looked in the right places. Her green gaze sweeps the area doubtfully. "Next time, we will share a rabbit," she mews, then blushes under her fur. She’s assuming she a lot, that he’ll risk meeting her again here. After a moment, she asks, hesitant: "What is it like? Under Granitepelt?" She remembers eyes like the densest forest shadows, remembers a smile cold and stiff as something dead, and she compares that memory to the dry auburn lands that sprawl around them.

Mother wanted me here, with him. The idea frightens her, intrigues her. Was she meant to flee in the dark, the taste of blood in her mouth, leaving chaos in her wake? Bluefrost licks her lips, uncertain. "She is dead, you know." A familiar grief begins to crawl through her fur like so many spiders. "They cornered her and held her down, and… Sunstar dealt the final blow."

She blinks. There’s a foreign dampness to her eyes. The wet blurs her vision, fuzzes Thriftfeather before her. "I am sorry that I stayed," she murmurs. "They do not trust me… nor should they. They know what is in my heart." But even as she speaks these words, round as marbles in her mouth, she’s filled with familiar uncertainty. She thinks of Cottonpaw, of Rattleheart, Gravelsnap, young Brackenpaw. But I wish you were there, too, she thinks.

He states he’d worried about her safety, had seen the smoke billowing into the skies. His joke causes a smile to grace her features, rare and beautiful and delicate. "We are alright. Sunstar…" Bluefrost’s nose twitches. "Sunstar lost a limb. Our prey has not returned, either. I went to ShadowClan to hunt…" She retains her smile; it becomes a touch rueful. "And you… what have you been doing out here?" What has happened since I saw you last?

『 out of character. 』 ✧･ﾟ:* 『 about. 』

• ooc: —
• 
• Bluekit . Bluepaw . Bluefrost, she/her w/ feminine terms.
  — "speech", thoughts, attack
  — 16 moons old, ages realistically on the 14th.
  — mentored by Sootstar ; mentoring Brackenpaw ; previously mentored n/a.
  — windclan warrior. sootstar x weaselclaw, gen 2.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  lh blue and white she-cat with emerald eyes. aloof, dignified, poised, haughty, composed, distant.
  
  

​

 

[Thriftfeather]

Next time, Bluefrost says, and Thriftfeather finds that he nearly believes her. He finds himself nodding in silent agreement regardless—even if there isn't going to be a next time (And Thriftfeather has his doubts that there is even truly a this time, let alone a next time) it is a nice enough thought that Thriftfeather feels compelled to carry on the illusion. Maybe in another life circumstance wouldn't be a chasm, and there truly could be a next time.

The question about Granitepelt sees Thriftfeather leaning closer, his nervous eyes instinctively flicking over the perimeter. This is not a meeting that Thriftfeather wants overheard, and what he is about to say makes him all the more aware of such a fact.

"He's a ShadowClanner at heart," There are harsher judgements that Thriftfeather could leverage, but why elaborate when ShadowClanner is summary enough? His following admission comes as an almost-whisper, held back from such only by the amount of teeth to his words, "I still don't—he's not an easy tom to trust. Whatever it is he thinks he is, he'll never stop being a ShadowClanner beneath it."

And perhaps that means Thriftfeather will never learn to be anything but a WindClanner, or that he'll always be a loner at heart.

Bluefrost delivers the news from WindClan; Thriftfeather feels himself chasing every detail. He had known Sootstar to be dead—otherwise why would he be here? Still, his heart at her words—the subtle shift in her demeanor. She's lost her mother in all of this. She was likely to have seen it happen, from the details she provides. Thriftfeather doesn't twitch out of his thoughts until Bluefrost is turning the question back to him, and his mouth moves without his permission.

"I killed Ghostwail," His words leave him in a rushed jumble. Thriftfeather inhales slowly, and tries again, "I killed Ghostwail. She was just—things couldn't have continued as they did. I lied before about what—" Inhale, exhale—Thriftfeather has never spoken about this in length to anyone but Bluefrost. Whatever he can say here, as inadept and out of practice as he feels speaking on this, will never cover the scope of it, "I lied about what she had done, back then. Ghostwail had killed my mother. I had seen it—I saw enough of it."

He's filled with the strange need to justify his actions to Bluefrost. No one has asked him too justify himself; consequence hasn't come for him yet. Thriftfeather suspects it never will, and cannot decide if that is a relief or not.

"We hadn't even been—I learned that we hadn't even been on WindClan territory when we were ambushed. So I just..." His claws hook into nothing—the sort of movement that comes with recollection. He had done that, and it hadn't felt real. As time presses on, it still doesn't, "After I learned that I just couldn't leave her alive." It feels like the biggest mistake that Thriftfeather has ever made. He still doesn't regret it, "But Ebonylight has taken her place as—he's started dragging kits back with him, from wherever he goes off to. It isn't right—what happened with me, or with those ShadowClan kits, and it isn't right here."

Putting words to his malcontent is a comfort that Thriftfeather had nearly forgotten. There isn't anyone in DuskClan that he would trust with these words, but Bluefrost has always been safe. Bolstering DuskClan's numbers was the objective correct choice—each one was an investment to the legacy of DuskClan. Each one had a name and a life and a home before DuskClan descended, vulture-like upon them. ​

DUSKCLAN WARRIOR ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 15 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[BLUEFROST]

Thriftfeather leans closer, and Bluefrost's whiskers quiver at his nearness. His scent is different now—thinner, dustier, but it's still him. I still recognize it. She exhales, a puff of warm air. The golden tabby tells her Granitepelt is a ShadowClanner at heart, and she nods, remembering. "There was always something... off, about him," she agrees, her ears twitching, eyes darting, trying to spot movement in the burnt grasses. She sees nothing, hears nothing but wind scraping against the scrubland. "That Mother trusted him... I still do not understand it," she confesses in a low, halting voice, as though she's afraid to openly question Sootstar's decisions even now.

Even though she cursed me with her final breaths.

"You what?" She's jolted back into the present, away from haunting, slender emerald eyes, and she meets Thriftfeather's citrine gaze with shock. "I killed Ghostwail." Bluefrost thinks of the warrior who'd raised him, white wreathed about his shoulders like smoke, like mist, and she shudders. Blood-rimmed eyes, gnashing teeth, a voice like ragged velvet—and although she also remembers Thriftfeather's hesitantly-spoken doubts, she knows what Ghostwail had meant to him.

"I am sorry. I know... I know that must have been..." But she trails off, helpless. She knows nothing, really. She'd been born to two esteemed parents, parents who conquered, who swept like wildfire over the forest, and Thriftfeather had been wrenched from his mother's grasp with talons, raised in a world not his own. She bows her head, remembering the fear choked in his throat as he'd confided to her, "I don't know what happened to her, but I think that had she been capable of it, she would have come for me."

"Your mother... did Ghostwail admit to it before you..." She closes her eyes, shakes her head. She'd been different, then, when Thriftfeather had confided in her; she'd been molded, shaped with importance, with value. She'd smiled so carefully, when now it pains her to look upon his gilded features and see something like remorse. "You did what you had to do," she decides upon. "You made the world right again."

Another memory crests. Claws shearing through tortoiseshell fur, the nearness of Thriftfeather's face as he'd held the rogue to the ground and she'd smacked, smacked, bitten. Blood had soaked both of their pelts. She searches him now, wondering if he remembers the wetness of it, the scent. We shared our first kill. We bathed in blood together. What does it mean, if anything? She flails, not knowing.

And then he's telling her about Granitepelt again, about Ebonylight, about kit-stealing and indoctrination. She frowns, and in a rare moment of weakness, she leans forward and brushes her muzzle against his in a halting display of comfort. "Those kits will have you, at least," she murmurs. "You, who knows what it is like to be taken from all you know, to be thrust into a different world and expected to live there." She jerks away, embarrassed, confused by the gesture that had somehow come to her naturally.

『 out of character. 』 ✧･ﾟ:* 『 about. 』

• ooc: —
• 
• Bluekit . Bluepaw . Bluefrost, she/her w/ feminine terms.
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — 16 moons old, ages realistically on the 14th.
  — mentored by Sootstar ; mentoring Brackenpaw ; previously mentored n/a.
  — windclan warrior. sootstar x weaselclaw, gen 2.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  lh blue and white she-cat with emerald eyes. aloof, dignified, poised, haughty, composed, distant.
  
  

​

 

[Thriftfeather]

It happens in an instant. Bluefrost moves and Thriftfeather's instincts scream that, despite all contradictory evidence, this is an ambush. Thriftfeather feels himself freeze and for a brief moment he hates this about himself—how easy he is to be taken off guard, or how quick he is to inaction unless pushed. He thinks without moving that he should be fighting back, and then Bluefrost speaks comfort to him and the world rights itself once more. Danger hasn't found them here yet. Tension doesn't ease from him—it drops from his posture all at once.

His heart doesn't slow until after she has started to pull away.

Thriftfeather leans thoughtlessly in her wake, chasing the contact, and then aborts the motion before it could be completed.

"I've missed you," He's said it before, but suddenly it feels imperative that Bluefrost be reminded, "After everything—after all that has happened, you shouldn't be this kind to me." And yet she always has been, or else she has never been cruel and cruelty's lack is easy to mistake for gentleness, "I know you wouldn't ever consider yourself kind but you—you just—" You've helped me far more than you can ever understand, "Nobody else has ever listened."

It feels inexcusable that they will need to separate. It had felt inexcusable the first time.

"I tried to be angry after—when I first realized you weren't here," The confession is spoken more like an embarrassing anecdote, set to the uncertain timbre of his voice. He recalls the motions of anger without the feeling—anything to distract from the pit that had opened in his chest, "It never stuck but I was—shouldn't you hate me? Or shouldn't..." He looks about himself, feeling bereft and seeking anything to supplement his thoughts, "Should there be a next time?"​

DUSKCLAN WARRIOR ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 16 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[BLUEFROST]

Her muzzle brushes his, her breath hot and smelling of tunneldust, of singed rabbit. His is the same as it had been that day when they'd breathed the rogue's blood—but it's thinner, caught. She startles and moves her face away, just as he leans forward to close the space between them. Her skins begins to flush beneath her fur. She's never felt like this around another cat—she's never felt the air crackle between herself and another, has never felt the electricity fray the edges of her pelt quite like this. It's like being caught in a storm. It's like a lot of things, things she can't put a name to, things that make her dizzy.

"I have missed you, too." She meets his gaze bluntly, earnestly, even though she feels fire swirling around her paws, her coat smoking. "Kind? No, I..." He beats her to her protest, saying, "Nobody else has ever listened." Bluefrost licks her lips and tastes dust. "You needed someone. I am glad that it was me."

And this is true. She is glad, no matter how strange it feels now to admit it. She lowers her gaze to Thriftfeather's paws, to claws clotted with a mother's blood, and she thinks about how they're not so different, how they've both sank their teeth into betrayal and walked away.

"I was angry with myself," she confesses. "Sometimes, I still am." She hesitates, then she mews, "I want there to be a next time. Will you meet me again? And I shall bring... I shall bring you some prey." Her voice takes on an odd pleading edge. "If you... if you want, that is."

『 out of character. 』 ✧･ﾟ:* 『 about. 』

• ooc: —
• 
• Bluekit . Bluepaw . Bluefrost, she/her w/ feminine terms.
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — 16 moons old, ages realistically on the 14th.
  — mentored by Sootstar ; mentoring Brackenpaw ; previously mentored n/a.
  — windclan warrior. sootstar x weaselclaw, gen 2.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  lh blue smoke she-cat with white and emerald eyes. aloof, dignified, poised, haughty, composed, distant.
  
  

​

 

[Thriftfeather]

When Bluefrost speaks, it isn't a true answer to Thriftfeather's question. Want for a next time did not mean that there should be one in truth. Above all else, Thriftfeather's is a life of preservation. This—even speaking to Bluefrost—goes against that. Still, he is nodding along to Bluefrost as if he has never known hesitation before. This goes against everything Thriftfeather should be doing, and it has been the softest of balms against the dread that had rooted itself so deeply into his chest.

"Alright," Thriftfeather speaks only once Bluefrost is done. At once, that possibility of next time feels like something tangible rather than a pleasant daydream. It is something that could happen—will happen. The thought is enough for a smile to break over Thriftfeather's face with the same gentle force of dawn, "We can meet nearby," He is aware of how eager he sounds as he speaks, but there isn't room in him for embarrassment, "That's—we can meet again in a few days, if it will be good for you."

For what feels like the first time, Thriftfeather's anticipation for the coming future exists as excitement rather than dread. It is a terrible idea—the reminder of such a thing doesn't touch Thriftfeather's mood, "Don't bring me anything you didn't catch yourself," He doubts that it had been her intention to do anything less—the only reason that he feels safe in issuing the challenge, "And I'll—I'll try to do the same."

They'll need to part soon. Thriftfeather doesn't feel hollow from this, not when he knows it won't be like the last time they had separated, "Be safe," Thriftfeather bows as he backs away a single step, and then lingers in place. He considers his words visibly for only a moment. When he does speak, his words leave him with a smile, "And—and Bluefrost, thank you. For... for everything."​

DUSKCLAN WARRIOR ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 16 MOONS ✦ TAGS​