- Jan 1, 2023
- 313
- 182
- 43
Chrysaliswing stared briefly at Butterflytuft's children who lay in peaceful slumber by her side, forenoon's grace doing nothing to shield them from a burning coal gaze, as though the remnants of golden hour's brevity still shone in apostate amber. The nursery was a microcosm of the dawn - the turning page of the tome, the rising prelude of the song. The chimera-pelted tom never found himself gravitating towards the nursery, as though he, beast of sulfur and venom and spluttering cinders, were not worthy to behold fledgling sprouts. And yet, here he was, though by reluctant assignment than by any righteous imperative. With pelt brazed and brushed in hearth-fire, the tom took care to not ravage anything in his wake. In the face of such gentleness, he felt as if he would ruin it by simply allowing his paws to touch it. He kept his distance from the kittens and their duly queens - the warrior felt so alien from them, and it was hard for him to believe that he had ever been that small. For a creature whose hackles always rose and whose shadow always shivered in ire, he could not have been so fragile before.
He returned his attention back to wadding up mossballs for the new nests, with each motion as monotonous as the last, like an automaton of a man. Fold in with one paw, follow with the other. Chrys had learned this familiar stirring from his many nights spent in the elder's den due to his scrupulous scraps and scrims. Always the quickest to strike, like a snake whose tail had been tread on far too many times, though he always made sure to unsheathe his blades before his opponent could. It was what always worked for him, to hit before one is hurt. It was not his fault that his vexations had been caught in his storm-wrought wrath, but it was his fault that he allowed tempestuous rage to consume his juvenile voice, his growing figure, and his fiery eyes. In the simplest words, he found his younger self an embarrassment (not that he was much better now, but he liked to believe that he was).
The tom grumbled to himself and said nothing to the queen whom he sat next to, with a plumy tail trailing along the edges of the leaves and twigs strewn about the nursery. Even that annoyance seeped into his skin, as though it waterlogged his very flesh, iron chains dragging alongside bare-boned wrists until they twisted blue and black. His temper always boiled particularly close to his breaking point, as though balancing along the edge of anger and despondency. He didn't want to talk to Butterflytuft, anyhow. The last time that he did, it was with his envenomed tongue, of spittling fire and crackling thunder. He remembered how fearful the former kittypet got - was she still scared now? He was used to that fear. Everyone around him feared him. Good riddance! He would rather be the arrogant king than the forlorn swain.
( Please wait for @butterflytuft to respond :3 )
He returned his attention back to wadding up mossballs for the new nests, with each motion as monotonous as the last, like an automaton of a man. Fold in with one paw, follow with the other. Chrys had learned this familiar stirring from his many nights spent in the elder's den due to his scrupulous scraps and scrims. Always the quickest to strike, like a snake whose tail had been tread on far too many times, though he always made sure to unsheathe his blades before his opponent could. It was what always worked for him, to hit before one is hurt. It was not his fault that his vexations had been caught in his storm-wrought wrath, but it was his fault that he allowed tempestuous rage to consume his juvenile voice, his growing figure, and his fiery eyes. In the simplest words, he found his younger self an embarrassment (not that he was much better now, but he liked to believe that he was).
The tom grumbled to himself and said nothing to the queen whom he sat next to, with a plumy tail trailing along the edges of the leaves and twigs strewn about the nursery. Even that annoyance seeped into his skin, as though it waterlogged his very flesh, iron chains dragging alongside bare-boned wrists until they twisted blue and black. His temper always boiled particularly close to his breaking point, as though balancing along the edge of anger and despondency. He didn't want to talk to Butterflytuft, anyhow. The last time that he did, it was with his envenomed tongue, of spittling fire and crackling thunder. He remembered how fearful the former kittypet got - was she still scared now? He was used to that fear. Everyone around him feared him. Good riddance! He would rather be the arrogant king than the forlorn swain.
( Please wait for @butterflytuft to respond :3 )
