- Dec 4, 2023
- 11
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( ☄ ) "So many gone..." Shrikethorn muses, a quiet sigh escaping her maw. It's strange to adjust to. Coming back from patrol to find the camp half-empty, the deputy gone, hisses of traitors upon the wind. Four bodies, two cast out and two sent to the stars. Would StarClan even receive them? Shrikethorn doesn't know who to grieve, feels a cold distance between herself and the lost. She should have fought too, that much she knows. And yet... would she have fled with the traitors, rallied behind Sunstride?
She loves her mother. Despite everything, she does.
She always has. Especially so in her kithood, eyes wide in search of Sootstar's face, in search of her approval, her recognition. It was the greatest glory she could imagine. The leader's daughter -- she always dreamed of standing by her side. Loud and brash and causing trouble just for the chance to have Sootstar's eyes upon her.
She's quieter, now. Calm, collected, competent. She is the kind of warrior that her mother can be proud of, and she feels sick. There is a sickness in her mother's gaze that she never saw as a child, a delirious paranoia. Had it always been there? Had it changed? It was the kits that she fought for, with Sunstride. ShadowClan's kits. Shrikethorn felt a roiling in her stomach whenever she looked upon them, so she avoided the little scraps of fur as much as possible. It's good that they're gone, if only so she doesn't have to think of them.
It's hard not to think of the missing. Snakehiss, younger than even her, does not deserve to stand at Sootstar's side.
...Or maybe he does. Shrikethorn wonders far more often than not now, whether her mother is fit for her crown at all.
She does not speak these thoughts. She does not speak most of her thoughts. The Shrikethorn that WindClan knows is a carefully controlled creature. A leashed dog, a fire-hearted thing dimmed so small as to avoid notice. Instead, her voice is level, each word spoken deliberately. "It feels... strange, knowing how many rats were in our midst." It's the kind of thing her mother would approve of. Empty words, mist on her tongue.
"Hm. Suppose there's not much to do but carry on," she concludes, pulling a rabbit from the fresh-kill pile. There's less mouths to feed, but less paws to hunt too. She will patrol and she will hunt and she will go about her life as she did before, as she has done for so many moons. The sickness in her stomach threatens to rise up, but her face remains stony as she leans down to eat.
She loves her mother. Despite everything, she does.
She always has. Especially so in her kithood, eyes wide in search of Sootstar's face, in search of her approval, her recognition. It was the greatest glory she could imagine. The leader's daughter -- she always dreamed of standing by her side. Loud and brash and causing trouble just for the chance to have Sootstar's eyes upon her.
She's quieter, now. Calm, collected, competent. She is the kind of warrior that her mother can be proud of, and she feels sick. There is a sickness in her mother's gaze that she never saw as a child, a delirious paranoia. Had it always been there? Had it changed? It was the kits that she fought for, with Sunstride. ShadowClan's kits. Shrikethorn felt a roiling in her stomach whenever she looked upon them, so she avoided the little scraps of fur as much as possible. It's good that they're gone, if only so she doesn't have to think of them.
It's hard not to think of the missing. Snakehiss, younger than even her, does not deserve to stand at Sootstar's side.
...Or maybe he does. Shrikethorn wonders far more often than not now, whether her mother is fit for her crown at all.
She does not speak these thoughts. She does not speak most of her thoughts. The Shrikethorn that WindClan knows is a carefully controlled creature. A leashed dog, a fire-hearted thing dimmed so small as to avoid notice. Instead, her voice is level, each word spoken deliberately. "It feels... strange, knowing how many rats were in our midst." It's the kind of thing her mother would approve of. Empty words, mist on her tongue.
"Hm. Suppose there's not much to do but carry on," she concludes, pulling a rabbit from the fresh-kill pile. There's less mouths to feed, but less paws to hunt too. She will patrol and she will hunt and she will go about her life as she did before, as she has done for so many moons. The sickness in her stomach threatens to rise up, but her face remains stony as she leans down to eat.
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"SPEECH"
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ˏˋ • ☄ SHRIKETHORN. WINDCLAN TUNNELER. SHE / HER.
18 MOONS & AGES ON THE 1ST. PENNED BY SATURNID.
☄ A SMALL WHITE MOLLY WITH ASHY GRAY PATCHES AND PIERCING YELLOW EYES.
SOOTSTAR xx FLINT. LITTERMATE TO SOOTSPOT.
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