- Feb 21, 2024
- 26
- 3
- 3
Stars bless her daughter . . . if nothing else ( for, of course, there are many other things about her she prizes ), the effort of carrying Kestrelsong was worth it solely for the fact that she has a nearly guaranteed escort any time she might like to stretch her legs. It's infrequent, lest she earn the ire of one of the more high - and - mighty warriors . . . but nursery - bound by choice as she may be, she has never been totally immune to wanderlust; indeed, her proclivity for it might be increased tenfold by the lack of indulgence.
And so, she embarks from the fern - ringed mouth of camp flanked by her daughter, commencing with idle chatter of some variety or another as they pad past rotten branches and fly - flecked bogs, the buzz of insects an ever - present and unwelcome song. White paws sink into slime - slick mud, ducking under the lowest pinnings of sparse pine and winding around lichen - encrusted rocks and through tattered ferns. They're nearly at the limit of where she might reasonably go, and Mockingbirdcry regretfully prepares to ask Kestrelsong that they turn around, when . . .
. . . What is that? Or, she should say, who is that? Her white jaws snap back shut and she moves forward in a lithe motion of fluffy white tail and splaying hind - limbs to cross the fox - length or two to the figure embedded in the mud. For a moment, she's nearly ready to rue the impending task of cleaning this much mud from yet another corpse . . . but no, the tabby - marbled side is animated with life, rising and falling. @betonyfrost, she registers with a startled smattering of blinks, dark lashes fluttering . . . the blue warrior is well entrenched in the moss - filmed muck, and seemingly unconscious.
What the hell's she doing? Mockingbirdcry wonders with an abrupt rumpling of her golden nose - bridge. Why in the name of the stars might a cat choose to sleep in this unattractive mess when there was a wealth of space in the warriors' den. She's familiar with Betonyfrost from her nursery stay and rumors around camp as a bit of a pain in the tail, and perhaps a touch strange, but not quite this odd . . . perhaps she was suddenly struck by some sort of compulsion to sleep? One she couldn't resist until she'd returned to camp? How long had she been gone, anyway?
" . . . Betonyfrost? " A white paw prods at the swell of a blue - tabby flank, Mockingbirdcry's weighty tail already twitching in anticipation of the gossip this might generate. Heavy head tilts, darkened eyes striving to meet rounded green, as if she might parse Betonyfrost's strange designs from the bleak verdancy of her gaze. " Hello? "
And so, she embarks from the fern - ringed mouth of camp flanked by her daughter, commencing with idle chatter of some variety or another as they pad past rotten branches and fly - flecked bogs, the buzz of insects an ever - present and unwelcome song. White paws sink into slime - slick mud, ducking under the lowest pinnings of sparse pine and winding around lichen - encrusted rocks and through tattered ferns. They're nearly at the limit of where she might reasonably go, and Mockingbirdcry regretfully prepares to ask Kestrelsong that they turn around, when . . .
. . . What is that? Or, she should say, who is that? Her white jaws snap back shut and she moves forward in a lithe motion of fluffy white tail and splaying hind - limbs to cross the fox - length or two to the figure embedded in the mud. For a moment, she's nearly ready to rue the impending task of cleaning this much mud from yet another corpse . . . but no, the tabby - marbled side is animated with life, rising and falling. @betonyfrost, she registers with a startled smattering of blinks, dark lashes fluttering . . . the blue warrior is well entrenched in the moss - filmed muck, and seemingly unconscious.
What the hell's she doing? Mockingbirdcry wonders with an abrupt rumpling of her golden nose - bridge. Why in the name of the stars might a cat choose to sleep in this unattractive mess when there was a wealth of space in the warriors' den. She's familiar with Betonyfrost from her nursery stay and rumors around camp as a bit of a pain in the tail, and perhaps a touch strange, but not quite this odd . . . perhaps she was suddenly struck by some sort of compulsion to sleep? One she couldn't resist until she'd returned to camp? How long had she been gone, anyway?
" . . . Betonyfrost? " A white paw prods at the swell of a blue - tabby flank, Mockingbirdcry's weighty tail already twitching in anticipation of the gossip this might generate. Heavy head tilts, darkened eyes striving to meet rounded green, as if she might parse Betonyfrost's strange designs from the bleak verdancy of her gaze. " Hello? "
