- Dec 15, 2022
- 121
- 23
- 18
It has yet to fully set in– Weaselclaw is dead. It feels like a dream. Something terrible and hazy. Surreal. If Weaselclaw was to die, it was going to be in battle. Some grand fight against RiverClan, or the very world that surrounded them. To die to sickness of all enemies, wasting away where none but the other sick could see his demise– a numbing end. Too swift. Gone. When Yewberry had turned traitor, Sparkspirit was still young; he threw himself to training all too soon after. When his mother was taken from him, who was there but Weaselclaw? Who cheered for him as he fought his own sister except Weaselclaw? He was the best WindClan had to offer, and now he was gone.
It hadn't set in. Sunstride had pulled a firmer tone than usual assigning him a patrol for the third time, the words going in one ear and out the other without ever registering, and even now that he's back in camp, it hasn't– it isn't real. Vacant eyes take in the totality of their camp, absent so many of warriors to the journey and sickness both. His lizard is among the few pieces of prey that will fill their pile tonight, but he doesn't care. He's not taking it to the freshkill pile. Where is he going? Not to the badger sett, a familiar path to the sick.
He approaches the molly that rests just outside of the nursery, watching her kits run around: Brightshine. (Who else would it be? Who else could he turn to, now that Weaselclaw was dead? His eyes sought Snakehiss' familiar pelt, if only because an argument would be more welcome than this uncomfortable biting grief, but he had missed the sleek black tom if he was here at all. It could only be Brightshine.) "Here," he mumbles, his flat voice a rasp of disuse. "Are they still nursing?" He has no idea how kittens work. "It won't feed all of you."
It hadn't set in. Sunstride had pulled a firmer tone than usual assigning him a patrol for the third time, the words going in one ear and out the other without ever registering, and even now that he's back in camp, it hasn't– it isn't real. Vacant eyes take in the totality of their camp, absent so many of warriors to the journey and sickness both. His lizard is among the few pieces of prey that will fill their pile tonight, but he doesn't care. He's not taking it to the freshkill pile. Where is he going? Not to the badger sett, a familiar path to the sick.
He approaches the molly that rests just outside of the nursery, watching her kits run around: Brightshine. (Who else would it be? Who else could he turn to, now that Weaselclaw was dead? His eyes sought Snakehiss' familiar pelt, if only because an argument would be more welcome than this uncomfortable biting grief, but he had missed the sleek black tom if he was here at all. It could only be Brightshine.) "Here," he mumbles, his flat voice a rasp of disuse. "Are they still nursing?" He has no idea how kittens work. "It won't feed all of you."
- OOC. please wait for @BRIGHTSHINE!
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🗲 . ˚ . SPARKSPIRIT. HE - HIM - HIS. 12 MOON OLD MOOR RUNNER OF WINDCLAN. VERY LOYAL TO HIS CLAN. PENNED BY REVELATIONS. ————
—— a trim mock tortoiseshell tom with mostly black fur splashed with the occasional patch orange. he has a singular white mark on the back of his neck shaped similarly to a lightning strike, and a small scar across the bridge of his nose. his eyes are a shocking electric blue. he has grown into his frame with dense musculature despite his lean, light appearance. swift and sturdy in equal parts.
- "speech"
