pafp the hunger in your haunt // prompt

[sunlitpaw]

The snow melting was a shockingly rapid process. Only a few weeks ago Sunlitpaw struggled to scent prey on the breeze during a hunting patrol, carefully followed the pawsteps of older warriors so they wouldn't have to trudge through belly-deep snow on their own. Now flowers pushed through sodden soil to greet an early-rising sun. This was Sunlitpaw's first new-leaf, born during leaf-fall when the flowers were beginning to wilt and the trees losing their leaves. Sunlitpaw had spent the majority of their time as an apprentice during leaf-bare, listening to tales of colorful fields that they had really only known covered in white. Even the gorse was beginning to bloom; Sunlitpaw was very used to picking thickets of just thorns and leaves. Flowers were a pleasant surprise that didn't bite them back. The gorse, however pretty it was with little yellow flowers, still nipped when Sunlitpaw tried to pull it. Well, there were much better and truthfully much prettier flowers to be found in the fields anyways. A break wasn't always a bad thing, and sometimes even encouraged, or so they'd been told. Whenever they had the opportunity now, they had spent a chunk of their free time carefully picking through flowers careful not to disturb their petals while nipping them at the stem.

Their muzzle was speckled in pollen and petals, gently grasping at the stems of half a dozen flowers they had carefully collected. Gentle pinks, vibrant purples, sun-bright yellows, some with a ring of petals so delicate Sunlitpaw was pretty sure she had more toes than the flower had petals. Others were flushed with petals, so thick they practically folded into themselves. Eyes as green as the burgeoning life around them scanned the outer wall of WindClan's camp, head held up to not bump even a single petal against the greening grasses as they walked.

A splotched coat caught their eye in the comings and goings of other WindClanners, and Sunlitpaw gently placed their flowers at their paws. "Scorchstreak," they call, a soft smile spreading their lips up. They quite liked the Lead Warrior - she was serious and said things straight, even if that wasn't always what Sunlitpaw wanted to hear. It was Scorchstreak that had told the apprentice to take some breaks, and Sunlitpaw intended on returning such a favor. They lift a grass-stained paw to gently motion at the flowers they'd collected, tilting their head lightly to the side. "I was planning on cleaning the graveyard now that the snow has started to melt. I... picked some flowers to put by the graves, now that they've grown." Words came almost scarily easy to Sunlitpaw in the company of Scorchstreak. "Care to help? I, ah, don't know flower languages but I just... picked what I thought was pretty for it, if you'd like any of them."
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𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦, ———— 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙧𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙩𝙚.

• please wait for @SCORCHSTREAK :)
  

  ⊱✿⊰ Even the dead still need some love! Your character decides to gather up some wildflowers to decorate the graves of those who have passed.

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  sunlitpaw

  
  

  — they / she, 8 moon old moor-runner apprentice of windclan. mentored by foxglare
  — a large yet timid chocolate tabby-tortoiseshell with spring green eyes
  — sunstar x wolfsong, sibling to rivepaw, bearpaw, singedpaw, & featherpaw
  — full length biography
  — penned by izanami, contact on discord @nullmoons for plots or threads :)

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[SCORCHSTREAK]

༄༄ The turning of the season has hit WindClan like a tornado, the once-calm snow melting away to reveal a storm of blossoms underneath. Scorchstreak has no particular interest in the flowers, not like some of her clanmates who seem to enjoy decorating themselves or their nests with the blooms. She only cares for the blue petals that sit upon the moss of her nest, contrasting against red blooms in the next nest over. As the calico returns to camp, she is taken by thoughts of her silvery tabby-striped friend. Bluepool seems very interested in decorating; should Scorchstreak gather some flowers to deliver to her nest? Would that be too much? Her thoughts are interrupted by a figure approaching, and a dark ear flicks as a call of her own name reaches her. She turns, and there is Sunlitpaw, standing with a few flowers gently perched at their paws.

"Ah, hello Sunlitpaw. It’s good to see you." She greets the younger WindClanner with a dip of her head and the hint of a smile upon her muzzle. The apprentice seems to have sought her out a few times recently, which Scorchstreak both appreciates and finds herself a bit confused by. Sunlitpaw had searched for her specifically to ask seemingly personal questions about bravery and cowardice—she wonders whether the torbie feels too nervous to ask their father or Wolfsong. It must be difficult, living as the child of a leader. What weight must be pressed upon their shoulders… Golden eyes soften slightly, understanding passing over her. No matter the reasoning, Sunlitpaw has placed their trust in her; she finds it a simple task to treat them as she would her own apprentice. Of course, Pinkpaw’s questions seem much more superficial, but Scorchstreak finds herself adoring the younger calico all the same.

Sunlitpaw informs her of their plan to clean up the graveyard, and explains the reasoning for the flowers at their feet. Scorchstreak wonders if there is anyone in particular they could wish to lay out flowers for, but perhaps there is no one. Sunlitpaw seems a dedicated, hardworking apprentice; perhaps they wish to attend to the clan’s dead out of the kindness of their heart. It is a sweet gesture, and Scorchstreak nods once. "I’d love to help you. I don’t know flower language, either, but I’m sure any meaning we give them is better than an official meaning." Not that she would be particularly good at assigning meaning to a plant that, fundamentally has no meaning, but for Sunlitpaw she finds herself willing to try. "I think these flowers will all be perfect to put on graves. These would go nicely on Tigerfrost’s—they match his eyes." She points out some warm yellow flowers, glancing up to the younger cat’s face to assess their response.​

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[downyfur]

ooc: kind of a tw, this is an angstier post!

The suggestion halts Downypaw in their tracks, as though they'd suddenly walked into a pool of molasses, not meant for them but overheard nonetheless. Flowers on graves. Deep blues hitch towards the flowers arrayed at Sunlitpaw's feet—what a brilliant feast for the myriad of souls at rest in the graveyard. WindClanners who had the fortune to die long before Sootstar had, perhaps at her machinations, but never her claws or the extensions of them. Cats who died with honor, whose bodies were laureled and wreathed before being tucked into an eternal nest.

Grief spills into her stomach like a sudden cloudburst, the dismal grays of her coat erupting without warning into the world beneath. (TW: descriptions of death) They had—they had dragged Lilacstem's stiffened corpse out through the trampled gose tunnel, and the trail her body left behind was etched into her brain as deeply as it been in the snow. She had stopped bleeding by then, but the dark path she carved seemed to pulse with red in their memory. All Downypaw had wanted to do right then was beg for them to leave her there, so that someone would at least keep them company while they slept, even if she never closed her cloudy eyes. If they couldn't bury her, if they were going to go through all the effort to drag her to the gorge anyway, why not let her stay? Right next to her, one last shred of kin to accompany her in a new world bereft. They hadn't known—couldn't even imagine—that world would return some day.

She doesn't think she could have stomached watching the same happen to Larkfeather, or maybe she just didn't remember. She couldn't even do her the justice of remembering. Downypaw freezes for a moment, scenes running amok from the cages they'd been loosed from. Cottonpaw had risked her life to offer them a single, dried-up sprig of lavender for their grief, their stupid grief, and it hadn't been enough to placate them. Nothing would ever be enough for them, apparently. And here she stands now, alive and surrounded by comfort, and she's still like this. She could gather all the flowers from WindClan's fields and dump them straight into the gorge, and it still wouldn't be enough. How could they be so stagnant? So...stubborn? Everyone—the entire world—was moving on, and for a moment they thought they had too, but it took the slightest thing to drag them back down again. Perhaps it was them that wasn't enough.

The soot-stained apprentice lingers on the edges of the pair's conversation, far enough to be let alone yet close enough to be pulled in if one so wished to. She closes her eyes, as though shutting the windows to the soul would prevent her racing thoughts from leaking out. Even now, given the chance to adorn symbolic graves with fresher flowers, they were frozen. But what would putting flowers on dirt do for them anyway? They had already failed. There was nothing to do after failure but lower their head and wait for the axe.​

 

[SUNSTAR]

He is already among the graves by the time the others make their way to decorate them. He has brought no offerings of his own, and his body does not curl around any one of the stones. Instead Sunstar is settled atop a small perch where he might see them all. Every marker; every loss that this clan has survived. They are not all his, yet they are, too. He had inherited this clan's past as he guided its future. That still feels distant. Who would have thought him the heir of this clan? Of the deputies that stood before him, one maimed, the other disgraced, he was the one that had truly almost died beneath her paws. And so too had he nearly taken his clan with him. It. . . is something of a miracle that they only lost those they did. Yet he could not say it mattered. They were still gone. His clanmates would still mourn.

He mourned too, though he sits in absolute silence. His eyes glide up to meet the others, flitting with surprise to see the two, but Sunstar does not stand to join them. Whatever moment this is, Sunlitpaw had asked for another for a reason, and Scorchstreak had agreed for her own. So as not to intrude, the rosetted tom lowers his head and stares at at the marker he has put himself closest too. One of the oldest graves, unnamed in his mind. And here in this silence, he ponders their story. And wonders if, in time, he would end up much the same.

⋆°•☁︎ 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝗕𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃  ╱╱ 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝗕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝗕𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 〚 02.11.2024 〛 𖤓

• OOC. dont mind him i dont want him to derail Bonding but this was a delightful dev opportunity ty for your delicious thoughts you three
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  SUNSTAR. LEADER OF WINDCLAN.   ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆
  ——– HE – HIM – HIS ╱╱ 48+ MOONS OLD, ADULT.

  NPC x NPC, MOUNTAIN CATS. MATE TO WOLFSONG; FATHER TO BEARPAW, SINGEDPAW, RIVEPAW, SUNLITPAW AND FEATHERPAW. MENTORING RIVEPAW.
  
  TH ╱╱ A LARGE, FRESHLY SCARRED CHOCOLATE AND WHITE ROSETTE TABBY TOM WITH SEAGLASS BLUE EYES

• "speech"

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