the language of dust — ashenclaw


The nursery is ever-crowded with kittens and pregnant bellies growing alike. Last anyone checked, there were five queens and what felt like an innumerable number of kittens, so today Cherrykit and her father are taking shelter from both them and the winds in another nook of camp. They've settled near a scraggly pine growing out of the hollow walls, its wispy branches swaying overhead. Cherrykit makes herself comfortable between one of the roots and Ashenclaw's side, and unapparent to her at the moment, is slowly being enveloped by the thick, soft fog of his fur. Pale eyes, greyed-out and moon-like beneath the faded sky, blink up at him. "Tell me a story," she mews, wrapping her stubby little tail around her paws. The wind keeps on shaking the pine boughs, scattering sharp-smelling needles here and there, but not yet is it the howling creature who would drown out their voices and blow them inside again.

She thinks while a particularly rough gust hits their hiding spot. "Please," she finally adds. Orangeblossom and Ashenclaw remind them to say it a lot, but she can't possibly be bothered to remember while making sure her father hears her over this wind. The little calico can't really remember if it was always this windy either. A long time ago (two days) it had been sunny, and she knows this because she tried looking up at the sun a long time ago. For that, she's a little glad that the sun went away. It's colder now though, colder than she's even known, so she presses herself deeper into Ashenclaw's fur and lets his scent fill her senses.

ooc: @Ashenclaw !
 
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