- Sep 5, 2023
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Today, the sky blooms blue and cloudless. Its brilliance feels like a mockery to Downypaw, and surely more to the ones Bluepool had left bereft. The vibrancy of her namesake might have never matched the vivacious councilmember, and maybe it never would again in the hearts of her numerous kin.
Downypaw wouldn’t know. She was never close to Featherspine’s mentor, out of occupational hazards or unconscious disinterest in fraternizing with more of Sootstar’s kin (Sootspot is enough for them). Scorchstreak, however, they do know, if only in professional capacity. Her glorious rage, her pathetic collapse; their frail heartstrings couldn’t take much more of it, at least not without trying to assuage their sight of it.
On soft steps she approaches the deputy, a Greenleaf-plump rabbit hanging delicately from white jaws. She settles it at mismatched paws. ”Scorchstreak,” they mew, as unobtrusively as they can over the hustle and bustle of a pleasant day. ”For you.”
Their second-in-command’s self–imposed hunger strike was common knowledge, or a common assumption. The apprentice themself remembered withering away in Sootstar’s prison of a camp, followed by a distinct apathy to the too-late realization of their state. Bearflight’s death had accompanied the fiery deaths of most prey; it had been all too easy to politely shake their head and avert their gaze from the miniscule fresh-kill pile.
Sources much closer to the flame-branded molly would know how to coax her into acknowledging her health, but it’s just Downypaw and their conscience today. ”Did you know Pinkpaw caught this?” she adds, gently and conversationally. ”Well, she and Owlface.” They don’t know if it’d truly been their sister and the staid warrior, but Scorchstreak’s fondness for the younger calico was plain as day in her endless tolerance. ”She asked me to give it to you,” they meow, the implication of Pinkpaw’s exaggerated upset trailing behind the remark.
@SCORCHSTREAK
Downypaw wouldn’t know. She was never close to Featherspine’s mentor, out of occupational hazards or unconscious disinterest in fraternizing with more of Sootstar’s kin (Sootspot is enough for them). Scorchstreak, however, they do know, if only in professional capacity. Her glorious rage, her pathetic collapse; their frail heartstrings couldn’t take much more of it, at least not without trying to assuage their sight of it.
On soft steps she approaches the deputy, a Greenleaf-plump rabbit hanging delicately from white jaws. She settles it at mismatched paws. ”Scorchstreak,” they mew, as unobtrusively as they can over the hustle and bustle of a pleasant day. ”For you.”
Their second-in-command’s self–imposed hunger strike was common knowledge, or a common assumption. The apprentice themself remembered withering away in Sootstar’s prison of a camp, followed by a distinct apathy to the too-late realization of their state. Bearflight’s death had accompanied the fiery deaths of most prey; it had been all too easy to politely shake their head and avert their gaze from the miniscule fresh-kill pile.
Sources much closer to the flame-branded molly would know how to coax her into acknowledging her health, but it’s just Downypaw and their conscience today. ”Did you know Pinkpaw caught this?” she adds, gently and conversationally. ”Well, she and Owlface.” They don’t know if it’d truly been their sister and the staid warrior, but Scorchstreak’s fondness for the younger calico was plain as day in her endless tolerance. ”She asked me to give it to you,” they meow, the implication of Pinkpaw’s exaggerated upset trailing behind the remark.
@SCORCHSTREAK
windclan apprentice | ”speech.” | tags
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