- Jun 15, 2023
- 98
- 7
- 8
die with memories , not dreams .
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶
/ takes place after this thread
It’d been brief, talking to Willowroot after stumbling on her during a patrol, offering a short telling of where he’ll be for the rest of the day — hunting. He didn’t explain the sudden hunt, nor his rumbled appearance other than an awkward swish of his tail, downplayed by the owlish blink of bi-colored hues. He felt regret sneak up on him when he could have slipped away and returned by dinner with prey sure to bring some pride to his father’s increasing ego, but because of some unfortunate realizations that the chimera didn’t want to admit just yet knowing that nothing would be enough. Not unless he died, and that was something Dawnstorm refused. He made a vow that day to his family and the warrior was determined to see to it until his bones grew too brittle — or he died by someone else’s paws.
The life of a warrior was harsh and unfair, but Dawnstorm would never exchange the memories he made for a lesser, more peaceful life if it meant never meeting them. But selfishly Dawnstorm wished everyone was here and not just … the leftover pieces that crumbled no matter which way you carried it or how delicately — in the end, it still crumbled.
He breathed a sigh of something akin to frustration, strained muscle, and no relief in sight, Dawnstorm hunted two rabbits with more difficulty than usual, sore and muted from exhaustion throughout a few moons. Oh. How long had he been out? Dawnstorm blinked owlishly, staring up as the moon kissed the horizon, blanketing the sky in darkened hues of navy blue and blueish purples that resembled a day-old bruise.
Too long. Answering his question, Dawnstorm shuffled across the terrain toward the familiar tells of camp. It’d taken some time until bi-colored hues caught the camp’s entrance with a happy trill ( born out of relief ), he continued to tug them one at a time with a panted breath, skin prickling with the need to rasp a tongue over his rumpled fur.
Dawnstorm scanned the outcropping for his father and when he couldn’t see sharp yellow hues, his shoulders fell with a quiet chuff, ears falling flat against his helm. He glanced up, blinking calmly at the approaching figure, Dawnstorm offered a questioning tilt of his helm. “Oh. Hello?” He intended it to be a statement, but his timbre took on a questioning trill.
It’d been brief, talking to Willowroot after stumbling on her during a patrol, offering a short telling of where he’ll be for the rest of the day — hunting. He didn’t explain the sudden hunt, nor his rumbled appearance other than an awkward swish of his tail, downplayed by the owlish blink of bi-colored hues. He felt regret sneak up on him when he could have slipped away and returned by dinner with prey sure to bring some pride to his father’s increasing ego, but because of some unfortunate realizations that the chimera didn’t want to admit just yet knowing that nothing would be enough. Not unless he died, and that was something Dawnstorm refused. He made a vow that day to his family and the warrior was determined to see to it until his bones grew too brittle — or he died by someone else’s paws.
The life of a warrior was harsh and unfair, but Dawnstorm would never exchange the memories he made for a lesser, more peaceful life if it meant never meeting them. But selfishly Dawnstorm wished everyone was here and not just … the leftover pieces that crumbled no matter which way you carried it or how delicately — in the end, it still crumbled.
He breathed a sigh of something akin to frustration, strained muscle, and no relief in sight, Dawnstorm hunted two rabbits with more difficulty than usual, sore and muted from exhaustion throughout a few moons. Oh. How long had he been out? Dawnstorm blinked owlishly, staring up as the moon kissed the horizon, blanketing the sky in darkened hues of navy blue and blueish purples that resembled a day-old bruise.
Too long. Answering his question, Dawnstorm shuffled across the terrain toward the familiar tells of camp. It’d taken some time until bi-colored hues caught the camp’s entrance with a happy trill ( born out of relief ), he continued to tug them one at a time with a panted breath, skin prickling with the need to rasp a tongue over his rumpled fur.
Dawnstorm scanned the outcropping for his father and when he couldn’t see sharp yellow hues, his shoulders fell with a quiet chuff, ears falling flat against his helm. He glanced up, blinking calmly at the approaching figure, Dawnstorm offered a questioning tilt of his helm. “Oh. Hello?” He intended it to be a statement, but his timbre took on a questioning trill.
thought speech
