- Aug 1, 2023
- 140
- 33
- 28
His approach is belated, weighed down as he's been with cobwebs and lost lives and a thousand smaller sins. Fresh scars, half - hidden by fur, mar his forelegs—shallow bite marks whose tenderness speaks to their newness, to the returning chorus of blood - song in his veins. A melody long lost, reawakened by the taste of dog's blood on his tongue and the yield of its flesh under his claws, the twitchy feeling as warm scarlet life coated his face. There's always been that one - note tune itching at the inside of him, straining against thin skin, a scratchy ache.
He remembers it with the clarity of daybreak, the first time he'd felt it, a newly awakened appetite. Remembers chest heaving, sweat beading on pawpads to mingle with the river, blood running down his struck nose, foam speckling his jaws . . . but mostly he remembers the rogue. Muzzle - down in the river, screaming bubbles, writhing and fighting for every greedy gasp of air under his claws—the first time he'd felt it, really felt it. Felt the rightness of it all. Felt like, finally, blessedly, he'd found somewhere he was meant to be.
He wonders if Ferngill feels the same.
" Ferngill? " He calls in a low, rasping register not unlike his father's, hoping not to startle the small ginger tom; his tone carries respect, deference despite the fact that he has to curve his neck and peer down to make eye contact ( for only a heartbeat ) with the trim red tabby. Wordless, he gestures with a tilt of the head and a flicker of a newly torn ear, waiting for affirmation before he finally eases himself into a seat on the sun - warmed sand by the other warrior.
" How did it feel? " He doesn't bother mincing his words, veiling them, leading Ferngill through shadow - smoked paths to wind their way to the crux of the issue. As he often does, he strikes immediately for the heart, appending, " At the gorge. When . . . you know. " For all his stoicism and clean - cut questions, there's a whisper of guilt, an undercurrent of shame ( perhaps a touch of wistfulness? ) slithering under his flat tone as he trains two - toned eyes on the distant horizon.
// @FERNGILL !!
He remembers it with the clarity of daybreak, the first time he'd felt it, a newly awakened appetite. Remembers chest heaving, sweat beading on pawpads to mingle with the river, blood running down his struck nose, foam speckling his jaws . . . but mostly he remembers the rogue. Muzzle - down in the river, screaming bubbles, writhing and fighting for every greedy gasp of air under his claws—the first time he'd felt it, really felt it. Felt the rightness of it all. Felt like, finally, blessedly, he'd found somewhere he was meant to be.
He wonders if Ferngill feels the same.
" Ferngill? " He calls in a low, rasping register not unlike his father's, hoping not to startle the small ginger tom; his tone carries respect, deference despite the fact that he has to curve his neck and peer down to make eye contact ( for only a heartbeat ) with the trim red tabby. Wordless, he gestures with a tilt of the head and a flicker of a newly torn ear, waiting for affirmation before he finally eases himself into a seat on the sun - warmed sand by the other warrior.
" How did it feel? " He doesn't bother mincing his words, veiling them, leading Ferngill through shadow - smoked paths to wind their way to the crux of the issue. As he often does, he strikes immediately for the heart, appending, " At the gorge. When . . . you know. " For all his stoicism and clean - cut questions, there's a whisper of guilt, an undercurrent of shame ( perhaps a touch of wistfulness? ) slithering under his flat tone as he trains two - toned eyes on the distant horizon.
// @FERNGILL !!
" speech ( theme week edition ) "
