private THE THINGS I THINK I LOVE \ cottonpaw

[BLUEFROST]

Misfortune has fallen upon Bluepaw’s family lately. Sootstar had lost a life to a ShadowClanner; Adderpaw had been injured and marked by a Twoleg; her father had led and lost a fight against RiverClan, Moorpaw had lost her mentor to rogues, and Cottonpaw…

Cottonpaw had been foolish. She loves her sister, but to run off so close to a hostile Clan’s borders and let herself be trapped by a lead warrior… she’d risked not only her life, Bluepaw thinks critically, but the rest of the patrol’s. Her mother would have cuffed her had she performed in such a way, and perhaps worse. She thinks the only reason Cottonpaw hadn’t been punished is because their father had been so terrified—and because Sootstar had been too blinded by fury at RiverClan to think of it.

She goes to find her sister, no longer her ashen twin. A red line of flesh mars her face, crossed over one blue eye, a message from RiverClan. Another splits the soft fur on her cheek. Bluepaw exhales softly, then settles beside Cottonpaw. “Does your face hurt still?” She flicks judgmental green eyes over her littermate’s pelt. “I’ve not been in a battle yet. You should tell me about it.” She’d not been held hostage either, but she does not speak this part aloud—yet.

@cottonpaw
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[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]​

 

[cottonsprig]

[ mobile! ]

Her sister's judgemental nature is not lost on her - while once twins to some regards, Cottonpaw wasn't ignorant to their clear differences. That said, she never thought Bluepaw's silent, torrential distaste would ever be turned on her. One of them must be the prodigal child, she would learn one day.

The grey furred she-cat spies her sister as the other approaches, waving a paw towards Bluepaw and offering a half hearted smile. WindClan's dayly regalia seems to grow more and more fond of failure as the sun sets, so much so she can feel it in her bones and struggle to reach her normal positivity. Perhaps her sister's (albeit quiet, stern) demeanor will shed some warm light back into their dimmer days.

Or, perhaps not.

"Only when I think of it," Cottonpaw ticks, her tail flicking to an untimed beat, out of step entirely. She looks over her sister's pristine expression and briefly wishes that she'd go and mar it, just so they wouldn't be so different again. Bluepaw's words aren't pressuring, but they're certain - as always her sister holds an air about her. Deciding not to reply is just as deadly as giving the wrong answer.

"It's stressful," she admits first. "RiverClan cats - they're like the fish they eat. They move in swarms and are big, and fat," she shakes her head, "Good luck if you're ever pinned by one." Cottonpaw holds her tongue for a second longer, not immediately keen on sharing the details of her situation beyond what's already been shared. "I got to nick one of their apprentices; I hope it scars just as badly." ​

 

[BLUEFROST]

Cottonpaw tells her the scar only hurts when she thinks about it. Bluepaw shifts slightly, cheek fluff falling to one delicate side of her chest. “Good thing it doesn’t hurt every time someone else thinks about it.” She sweeps her thick tail to one side of her flank, listening to her sister’s description of the battle. Well-fed, sleek RiverClanners, all dripping water and lunging at WindClan for the chance to spill their blood. She finds the idea detestable. “I’m sure they all reek,” she says, giving a disdainful sniff. “I cannot believe one got his claws into you.”

Her veil of subtlety has been dropped. She is openly staring at Cottonpaw’s scarred eye now. “Did you give her a scar like that?” Her whiskers twitch. “Honestly… what were you thinking, straying from the patrol like that?” She wants to belittle her—not only out of meanspiritedness, but to impart some sense into her. “Imagine if you’d been kidnapped. Imagine if you’d died. You could’ve caused real trouble, you know.”

✧ INFO.

•  
• 
  — bluekit . bluepaw
  — she/her, apprentice of windclan
  — bisexual ; single
  — long-haired blue she-cat with white and green eyes
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — penned by Marquette
  — art by Meg

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