- Jan 1, 2023
- 313
- 182
- 43
The winter had finally begun to ease up on delicate joints, and though Chrysalispaw's body still rang of youthful vigor of adolescence, the cold still howled beneath ribbons of plume and muscles of abrasion. It was pervasive, persistent, and impertinent. Those were all the qualities that the flame-furred cat hated. But, for the first time, Chrysalispaw's throat did not feel as though ice tore at the fragile flesh. He saw leaf-bare as this corvid-like sort of character, a strident thing with talons to wrest and beaded eyes to wear. If only he had the power to swat at it with his mortal claws, to bring it down and to stop it from afflicting the sun above. Well, his prayers had been answered, or something of the sort. Snow did not descend from atop heaven's throne, and the sky had been clarent this morning, with the sun perched atop a pall of a limb. He could feel the warmth of the sun's rays flittle upon his pelt, though it was nowhere near as embellished as the brightness of summer.
Departing from the dawn patrol that he had been assigned on, the russet-and-sable feline trotted into the camp, with a gait like a pompous bird of prideful plume. He always had that presumptuous placement about him, an arrogance that clung to his fur like an avian display of feathers. The chimaera's steps made a beeline for the fresh-kill pile, which had gradually become larger and larger as the days rolled closer to springtide, as the harvest of prey had become more plentiful as wildflowers neared fruition. Even if it was still leaf-bare, the squirrels and the rabbits began to poke their heads out of makeshift dens, and the birds began to trail closer to the earth. Chrys' stomach growled like the fervent song of the harrowed wolf, tumbling and churning like an angry storm. The voracity of hunger drove most to madness if it were not bayed with sweet flesh, and even the simplest pangs of desire pulled upon the rationality of most. He was lucky to not have seen the depravity that famine acted as the harbinger as, but he had gotten a taste of that in the Windclan battle.
One deft paw rummaged through the scrawny mice and birds, turning the prey on their sides before doing it all over again. Hawkish eyes scanned for any morsel that promised to be more than lean sinew and butterfly-thin bones, though that promise ran as thin as weather's consistency, and he was starting to lose hope in finding a good meal that hadn't already been snatched away by a kit or elder (or even some ungrateful warrior or apprentice). Well, he figured he deserved it, since he was on the dawn patrol of all things. He hoped that new-leaf would bring better benedictions, but even then would spring's squalls rumble in the distant horizon. He had been so focused on himself that he hadn't noticed he stepped on another cat's foot.
@FIERYPAW
Departing from the dawn patrol that he had been assigned on, the russet-and-sable feline trotted into the camp, with a gait like a pompous bird of prideful plume. He always had that presumptuous placement about him, an arrogance that clung to his fur like an avian display of feathers. The chimaera's steps made a beeline for the fresh-kill pile, which had gradually become larger and larger as the days rolled closer to springtide, as the harvest of prey had become more plentiful as wildflowers neared fruition. Even if it was still leaf-bare, the squirrels and the rabbits began to poke their heads out of makeshift dens, and the birds began to trail closer to the earth. Chrys' stomach growled like the fervent song of the harrowed wolf, tumbling and churning like an angry storm. The voracity of hunger drove most to madness if it were not bayed with sweet flesh, and even the simplest pangs of desire pulled upon the rationality of most. He was lucky to not have seen the depravity that famine acted as the harbinger as, but he had gotten a taste of that in the Windclan battle.
One deft paw rummaged through the scrawny mice and birds, turning the prey on their sides before doing it all over again. Hawkish eyes scanned for any morsel that promised to be more than lean sinew and butterfly-thin bones, though that promise ran as thin as weather's consistency, and he was starting to lose hope in finding a good meal that hadn't already been snatched away by a kit or elder (or even some ungrateful warrior or apprentice). Well, he figured he deserved it, since he was on the dawn patrol of all things. He hoped that new-leaf would bring better benedictions, but even then would spring's squalls rumble in the distant horizon. He had been so focused on himself that he hadn't noticed he stepped on another cat's foot.
@FIERYPAW
