- Feb 21, 2024
- 26
- 3
- 3
If Mockingbirdcry, with all her sprawling tendrils ever - seeking of gossip, of information, is aware of the rumors surrounding her own wispy - furred form, she's never shown it. The younger queens, the ones soft of heart, are easily led to the ever - shifting rumors surrounding her origins . . . chief among them, the rumor most likely to make its way to little ears, is that she never had a real origin at all; that the white form given to creeping on silent paws about camp is merely a well - formed apparition. The queen herself seems to do little to dissuade it—her very existence speaks to the potential of truth, all shadowy past and round - the - neck scars and fur as thin as dawn's just - broken mist.
If she is aware of it ( which she is not ), and if she deliberately encourages it ( which she does not ), well, that's nobody's business. It's true that her silken pawsteps mean she's given to appearing like a small lilac - marbled cloud at any given point, scaring the living daylights out of a sleepy warrior; it's true that the sunken scar around her neck appears hardly survivable; it's true that her voice is as hoarse as a grave - cry. But she's flesh and blood, mind you, as wispy and half - formed as she can seem.
" Branchkit, " she greets in whispery tones, voice ever stuck at a husky register. Long white legs, trailing fogs of ivory fur, wind past the smaller shape of Needlebranch's tawny charge ( one of thousands, it seemed ). Mockingbirdcry's feathery head dips to the little tom's level, heavy tail flicking behind her, itself caught full of stray tufts of greenery, heavy fur dappled with half - dried mud . . . none of this does anything to dissuade @BRANCHKIT from the impression that pale, wispy paws don't really touch the earth. " Your mother's doing well, I hope? "
If she is aware of it ( which she is not ), and if she deliberately encourages it ( which she does not ), well, that's nobody's business. It's true that her silken pawsteps mean she's given to appearing like a small lilac - marbled cloud at any given point, scaring the living daylights out of a sleepy warrior; it's true that the sunken scar around her neck appears hardly survivable; it's true that her voice is as hoarse as a grave - cry. But she's flesh and blood, mind you, as wispy and half - formed as she can seem.
" Branchkit, " she greets in whispery tones, voice ever stuck at a husky register. Long white legs, trailing fogs of ivory fur, wind past the smaller shape of Needlebranch's tawny charge ( one of thousands, it seemed ). Mockingbirdcry's feathery head dips to the little tom's level, heavy tail flicking behind her, itself caught full of stray tufts of greenery, heavy fur dappled with half - dried mud . . . none of this does anything to dissuade @BRANCHKIT from the impression that pale, wispy paws don't really touch the earth. " Your mother's doing well, I hope? "
