- Aug 1, 2023
- 150
- 35
- 28
// Minor CW for general neglect of self.
He's back from a day of diving late in the afternoon—it's soothing, really, the way the water stays icy at the deeper levels despite the burning heat of the sun, now sinking into a bloody blaze smeared across the horizon. It's the time when most of the Clan starts to settle down, collect their day's meals, loaf about and share tongues and tuck flowers in each others' fur. Scorched as he is by his youth, he prefers to stay far away from the grooming sessions, and more often than not, after he's dumped his first round of catches on the fresh - kill pile, he'll head back out for a quick practice session or an attempt at a last extra fish gleaned from the waters ( in the wake of recent tragedy, he's eyed the borders from a distance on occasion, too ).
The comforting sound of scales on scales as he settles the fish onto the gleaming pile, plentiful with greenleaf, is a balm to the soul. StarClan, too bad it's not a balm for the body—his head's a touch cloudy, his muscles are sore, and his joints achy in a gentle, evasive way. The pain skitters away when he looks too close and creeps back in as soon as he's otherwise occupied; though, honestly, he wouldn't trade it in if given the opportunity. The black - and - white warrior gives a long, easy stretch of his elegant limbs, feeling the satisfying burn in his shoulders with the motion, then straightens up with a barely noticeable waver.
Waving off someone's questioning mew, he heads for the exit once more—he'll eat when he's back from his little outing, maybe sleep too, if he can catch that flighty creature. The steady rhythm of his day's work has been a sturdy rock amidst the storm of—well, not even the past few moons, but really, every single one since he left the willow den for the last time. Cicadaflight sighs, lost in thought, not quite noticing the way the world starts to list, and by the time he does, it seems a little too late anyways.
Thump! The sound of such a large body hitting the sandy earth near the camp exit is not exactly a quiet one, though there's a certain grace to the way deer limbs crumple and a sharp face makes contact with the gritty earth. It's hardly a moment—barely enough time for the cats nearby to notice and skitter over—before the monochrome tom is propping himself back up on his forelegs, blinking blearily and immediately trying to stand once more. The sensation of falling back onto his elbows, legs trembling leaflike beneath him, is a weakness long lost and unfamiliar, and it unsettles him.
So, naturally, he only tries harder to stand. Unsuccessfully.
// He's mostly fine, just too much work and not enough sleep or food; he was out for less than a minute.
He's back from a day of diving late in the afternoon—it's soothing, really, the way the water stays icy at the deeper levels despite the burning heat of the sun, now sinking into a bloody blaze smeared across the horizon. It's the time when most of the Clan starts to settle down, collect their day's meals, loaf about and share tongues and tuck flowers in each others' fur. Scorched as he is by his youth, he prefers to stay far away from the grooming sessions, and more often than not, after he's dumped his first round of catches on the fresh - kill pile, he'll head back out for a quick practice session or an attempt at a last extra fish gleaned from the waters ( in the wake of recent tragedy, he's eyed the borders from a distance on occasion, too ).
The comforting sound of scales on scales as he settles the fish onto the gleaming pile, plentiful with greenleaf, is a balm to the soul. StarClan, too bad it's not a balm for the body—his head's a touch cloudy, his muscles are sore, and his joints achy in a gentle, evasive way. The pain skitters away when he looks too close and creeps back in as soon as he's otherwise occupied; though, honestly, he wouldn't trade it in if given the opportunity. The black - and - white warrior gives a long, easy stretch of his elegant limbs, feeling the satisfying burn in his shoulders with the motion, then straightens up with a barely noticeable waver.
Waving off someone's questioning mew, he heads for the exit once more—he'll eat when he's back from his little outing, maybe sleep too, if he can catch that flighty creature. The steady rhythm of his day's work has been a sturdy rock amidst the storm of—well, not even the past few moons, but really, every single one since he left the willow den for the last time. Cicadaflight sighs, lost in thought, not quite noticing the way the world starts to list, and by the time he does, it seems a little too late anyways.
Thump! The sound of such a large body hitting the sandy earth near the camp exit is not exactly a quiet one, though there's a certain grace to the way deer limbs crumple and a sharp face makes contact with the gritty earth. It's hardly a moment—barely enough time for the cats nearby to notice and skitter over—before the monochrome tom is propping himself back up on his forelegs, blinking blearily and immediately trying to stand once more. The sensation of falling back onto his elbows, legs trembling leaflike beneath him, is a weakness long lost and unfamiliar, and it unsettles him.
So, naturally, he only tries harder to stand. Unsuccessfully.
// He's mostly fine, just too much work and not enough sleep or food; he was out for less than a minute.
" speech "
