camp summer comes and winter fades ✿ prompt

[Windykit.]

FLOWER: Hydrangea ✿
PROMPT: Y/C notices how the flowers seem to sprout up almost instantly after the onset of spring. Do they like it or wish the snow was still here?

BONUS: Each post must contain a word that rhymes with the word "petal". For example, the words "metal" and "nettle" both count for this!​

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THE BIRDS SANG THEIR SONG AND I LISTENED,
THERE WASN'T A THOUGHT IN MY HEAD​

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windykit ✿ 01 moons ✿ demi-girl ✿ she/they ✿ windclan kit

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─ ─ Newleaf arrives with a burst of warmth - a strange sensitive, for a child who so far has only known the cold chill of leafbare. The scattered remains of snow begin to melt away, fading to reveal pale green - grass, fresh with new growth. It's soft and springy - not like the itchy, scratchy stalks that sometimes line the dens and nests, or that surround the gorse walls of camp. No, it's far more pleasant under paw.

This burst of color is strange enough - drawing wide eyes from the child as it slowly overtakes the camp, seemingly from one day to the next, but even more fascinating is the flowers. Windykit has never seen flowers before - not outside of cottonsprig's den at least, and those paled in comparison. Dry, brittle things - sharp smelling in a very pleasant and comforting way, but far from pretty or fresh, with dull and drab colors faded with time.

Now, pale buds speckle the camp - tiny pinpricks of color, painting the camp in shades of white, yellow, pink, and even purple. It's amazing - far more so then the pale gleam of frost she'd grown familiar with - and Windykit can't seem to get enough of it. Each morning, paws carry her carefully across the camp, moving to settle upon the sidelines - crouched, nose-to-nose with whatever has caught her eye. Today, its a pale green stalk - tin and fuzzy, with jagged leaves and a bud that still green with youth.

She wonders what it will look like, when it finally blooms.

─ actions & " speech " & 'thoughts / qoutes'​

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it's hard to be human sometimes

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. ݁₊ ⊹ ✿ A strange and whimsical child, Windykit is still learning about the world and all it has to offer. A bit uncanny at times, she can be unnervingly quiet and often says odd things. ​

 

[SCORCHSTAR]

༄༄ The seasons have turned at last, slipping from winter to spring in the span of a single hare's leap. As the sun spends more and more time shining warmth down upon the territory, the blanket of snow that has been locked over WindClan recedes, giving way to the fresh new growth of spring. The wintertime has been harsh for the moorland clan, the blizzard a test of mettle like no other, but at last they seem to have crested the uphill climb. They are on their way to brighter days, as difficult as that is for the calico to believe. At least the flowers are beginning to grow—and it seems some of the kits have taken to the tiny budding flowers. "Are you enjoying the flowers, Windykit?" She asks, striding over to stand on the other side of the flower that the girl watches intently. She lowers herself to her belly across the dirt and new sprigs of grass, looking closely at the object of the kit's attention.

She continues on after a short pause, "Once, these moors were covered in flowers… border to border, as far as the eye could see." Of course, that had been before the devastation of the fires and the subsequent injury that had set Sunstar upon his downward spiral. It had been a high point for WindClan—one of the last great times she can recall. Bluepool had still been alive then, as had Rattleheart. There had been love, brightness in Scorchstar's life, still. There had been a shared nest with pale blue flowers, and a silvery tabby-striped pelt pressed against her own.

The leader shifts, tugging herself from the dive she had taken into those beautiful memories. The only thing she has now is her clan—Windykit included. Dappled paws carry the leader closer to the young cat, glancing down at their small form. "Perhaps we will see them return again this year."

OF THE FOLKLORE AND THE FABLES ☽♰☾ SHE’S THE TALLEST TALE OF ALL

• ooc: —
• 
• 
  SCORCHSTAR ⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆ she/they, leader of windclan, tunneler
  ༄ 8/9 lives. (IC, it is believed that she still has all 9 lives)
  ༄ small, slim flame-streaked calico with fiery golden eyes. stern and serious, ferociously protective of her clanmates.
  ༄ mate to bluepool ; sibling to rattleheart & rabbitclaw
  ༄ mentor to bilberrypaw & splinterpaw
  ༄ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted
  ༄ penned by foxlore

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[MARROWPAW]

Marrowpaw does not find comfort in newleaf.

He sees it, of course—the way the snow shrinks, leaving behind damp earth and fragile sprouts, the way the wind loses its bite, the way the sun lingers longer in the sky. He hears the way the birds return, their songs unfamiliar after so many moons of silence. He feels the ground soften beneath his paws, smells the fresh green scent that replaces the cold, clean sharpness of leafbare. But he does not trust it. Newleaf is change, and change is uncertain. Change does not care for what was lost, only for what comes next. New buds grow where old ones withered. The snow melts, revealing not what was buried beneath it, but something new entirely. The world moves forward, and it expects him to do the same. He does not know how.

From the edge of camp, he watches Windykit crouch in the grass, nose to nose with some fragile green stalk. He recognizes that wonder in her eyes, the way she leans in like she is trying to understand something too delicate to put into words. It is the same way he once looked at the tunnels, the same way he once looked at the sky beyond the moors. The sight of it twists something in his chest. Then the leader approaches her, speaking softly, and Marrowpaw listens. He does not mean to, but his ears—one whole, one ragged—catch the words regardless. Flowers as far as the eye could see. A time before fire, before loss, before grief. A time before everything went wrong.

He does not remember such a time.

Marrowpaw turns his head, gaze flickering across the camp, over the patches of color that have begun to bloom. Windykit and the leader look at them with the hope of what they might become. Marrowpaw looks at them and thinks of how easily they will be trampled, how quickly they will wilt beneath the summer sun. Perhaps the flowers will return this year. Perhaps they will not. It does not matter. They will only disappear again.


[ i offer u lavender <3 ]​