- Jul 10, 2023
- 71
- 51
- 18
It's so clean here.
It's slightly uncanny, actually, living in a world made of sun-bleached moor grasses and dusty earth. The prey, while not exactly fattened at this time of year, is thickly furred or feathered and with more meat on its bones than Ghostpaw is used to. The breeze is constantly whispering-slash-chattering-slash-howling and cradling her closely cropped fur in its whistling arms. Frost coats the earth each sunrise instead of mud, and Ghostpaw herself feels almost frighteningly cleansed.
That does not, however, exempt her from having to wash her pelt. Tufts of heather and grass and a thin coat of dusty earth tend to settle into her shiny fur by sunhigh. Within all the chaos, the upheaval, of her new home, Ghostpaw feels as though she's fallen by the wayside. She's not beheld to any particular warrior or duty, and spends much of her time tailing her father around and trying to learn new hunting methods. If regret occasionally washes bitter against the back of her throat, pride coats it sugary-sweet.
She misses her mother, sometimes. The feeling of snuggling into a warm nest, the smell of herbs and marsh.
Ghostpaw shakes her head to rid herself of the thought and commences working sprigs of grass out of the spiky fur that rings her neck. It flares out in a ruffle of thorns, her marshwater blood on display for everyone to see. She still feels the ghosts of glances on her pelt from her new Clanmates, distrust and distaste, and something curls small and dying in her chest each time she's so dismissed. Whatever. It doesn't matter. She doesn't need anyone to share tongues with.
This had been the right decision.
It's slightly uncanny, actually, living in a world made of sun-bleached moor grasses and dusty earth. The prey, while not exactly fattened at this time of year, is thickly furred or feathered and with more meat on its bones than Ghostpaw is used to. The breeze is constantly whispering-slash-chattering-slash-howling and cradling her closely cropped fur in its whistling arms. Frost coats the earth each sunrise instead of mud, and Ghostpaw herself feels almost frighteningly cleansed.
That does not, however, exempt her from having to wash her pelt. Tufts of heather and grass and a thin coat of dusty earth tend to settle into her shiny fur by sunhigh. Within all the chaos, the upheaval, of her new home, Ghostpaw feels as though she's fallen by the wayside. She's not beheld to any particular warrior or duty, and spends much of her time tailing her father around and trying to learn new hunting methods. If regret occasionally washes bitter against the back of her throat, pride coats it sugary-sweet.
She misses her mother, sometimes. The feeling of snuggling into a warm nest, the smell of herbs and marsh.
Ghostpaw shakes her head to rid herself of the thought and commences working sprigs of grass out of the spiky fur that rings her neck. It flares out in a ruffle of thorns, her marshwater blood on display for everyone to see. She still feels the ghosts of glances on her pelt from her new Clanmates, distrust and distaste, and something curls small and dying in her chest each time she's so dismissed. Whatever. It doesn't matter. She doesn't need anyone to share tongues with.
This had been the right decision.
"speech"
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