one-stringed lyre — ilya


Cherrykit feels like it's been cloudy forever. She misses the sun; her downy fur hasn't yet grown into the solid, sleek mass that her father was supposed to pass down to her. What wind manages to burrow into the camp hollow pierces right through her. The kitten had been knocked down, flattened, and nearly swept away within the past week, but the nursery was getting more stifling by the day. So she ventures out today, hoping to score even a faint glimmer of sun this grey afternoon.

Warriors and their apprentices trickle in from the sunhigh patrol, though no cat in their reasonable mind would feel like the sun is high, and she stares at them from the entrance of the nursery. One of the smallest cats holds a bird in their jaws, nearly hidden from their black bangs swaying in their stride. Orangeblossom has been pushing her litter to feed from sources other than her, mostly birds, with a smattering of squirrels and a few eggs here and there. All more difficult than latching onto a teat, but if she had to choose, Cherrykit would prefer birds for the way most of their feathers could be plucked off their skin. With that in mind, she trots over to the apprentice. "Give me that." she meows matter-of-factly. Orangeblossom and Ashenclaw spare their children no manners, but this cat isn't either of her parents, and saying "please" doesn't matter enough for her to remember.

ooc: @ilya !