border on the wind alone ⛧ loner trespassing

[???]

As the moon hangs low in a dusky purple sky, weary paws carry a worn tom steadily forward. Where he aims to truly go is lost on him, although the pungeant scent of nearby border markings are not; he's been lingering here for some time now, pacing to and fro in a winding, looping circle, jaws parted to take in the scents of the wild cats beyond these borders. Abruptly, he now stops still. With his tail low to the ground, he trains wary eyes forward into a throng of willow trees, watching their hanging leaves as they billiow into the crisp, unforgiving wind. Whispers on the breeze had told him that a cat he'd long abandoned had been left in the claws of these Clans.

He struggles now, to think of his young kitten tucked into a forest which bares teeth and claws at any cat who dares step wrong over their lines of scent. Could he be living here, among these willows, taking to a Clan only because the last remaining of his kin are now dead? His neck fur bristles as he thinks of Dust, and of Pale—the real father, whom Dust had borne children to outside of their once-faithful partnership. Lost in his thoughts, he stands stiff and unmoving, pelt blending so deeply into dappled shadows that he would stand near invisible, if not for twin moons of memory-glazed yellow eyes. Then, as if making up his mind, he staggers over the border and more deeply into the territory, tail lashing and claws hooking small pebbles as he paces forward, ears flat.

He will find his bastard son, be he true kin or not.

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[willowroot]

( ☾ ) as the tall molly leads her small dusk patrol along the border, she feels a creeping feeling of unease settle low in her belly. even surrounded by clanmates as she is, willowroot's fur lifts ever slightly on her spine as she watches the moon climb higher in the violet sky. the stark outlines of trees on the thunderclan side of the river scratch at the sky, naked and foreboding. the territory feels haunted tonight. a wind rustles what leaves are left on the trees. willowroot pads on.

a rustle in the underbrush halts the warrior in their tracks. the narrow muzzle lifts to the sky, finding a sour, unfamiliar scent that had not been on the air moments prior. a growl rumbles deep in the feline's throat. "trespasser," they murmur to their patrol, curling their feathery tail protectively around echopaw. as the rogue strides into view, green eyes like slivers of the moon narrow. a voice calls out, low, dangerous. "you are on riverclan territory, stranger," willowroot warns. "it would be wise of you to leave. what business do you have here?"

THE ECHOING HYMN ☾ OF MY FELLOW PASSERINE

• // apprentice tag @Echopaw~ xoxo "#91A26C"
• 
• WILLOWROOT ☾ SHE / THEY, WARRIOR OF RIVERCLAN. 46 MOONS. MENTORING ECHOPAW. PENNED BY LAVS
  
  
  a long-haired black smoke oriental with sage-green eyes. smoky long fur coats the length of willowroot's lithe body, cut through with dark ghost stripes. friendly sage green eyes that narrow in an almond shape, and her muzzle and limbs are thin and long due to her oriental heritage.

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[???]

It isn't long before a growl stops him. He pauses, meeting a cat that carries the pride of the forest; he eyes her slowly, pointedly, as if solving a puzzle. Neat paws and long legs, which trail up, up, up, to a single tall ear and sharp, intelligent features. His fur lies flat—not because she makes him feel welcome, but because he finds her beautiful, in a wild sort of way. But he will not trust her, pretty as she is. She calls him a trespasser, voice carrying the threat of danger that he knows she will back with her claws. His gaze holds onto hers for a long moment, mirroring intensity as they lock themselves in a silent exchange of heightened tension. "...I know where I am," he says after a long few heartbeats, head turning backward toward the border he'd crossed, though his eyes keep level on her and the dutiful apprentice tagging on her heels. He does not regard the patrol she had brought at her shoulder, as she had spoken first, and thus she commands his unwavering attention. It may be wise of him to leave, but his paws keep rooted to the dirt, claws curled from their sheathes.

"I'm looking... For my son." The explanation is slow, and a hint of venom seeps into his tone. It wasn't Flax's fault that he was born to a cheating, lying mother, but he still feels a certain disgust in calling him his own when he is not truly of his blood. Isn't that his entire reason for looking, though? Reclaiming the kinship that should have been his from the beginning? He narrows his eyes as clouds drift languidly across the moon; a drawn sigh prompts fog to billow around his face, and the mist curls around his dark-shadowed features, coiling up around hollow eyes and dark ears. He looks as haunted as his surroundings. Frigidity comes and goes from his expression with the passing clouds, and as his face is re-lit in the sickly yellow light of the moon, the shroud of hate drains from his expression, as if whisked away by cold wind. He angles his head toward Willowroot, staring at her, expectant. "Have you taken in a kit recently?"

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