- Aug 10, 2022
- 633
- 144
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“Smokethroat.” The last time she’d been to the leader’s den, it had been full of life. Smokethroat had been curled about his three unruly kits, and the nest had still been warm from Cicadastar’s body; the air had been redolent with scents of their family. When she steps cautiously near, it’s cold, just as it is outside, and the air smells strange, stale. There’s the stench of unfamiliar cats on the moss, tufts of alien fur scattered throughout the den. She blinks through the gloom of dusk, finding Smokethroat outlined with crimson from the setting sun. “May I enter?”
Iciclefang waits respectfully for his invitation before setting paw into the den. The chill from the wind night has brought them is suppressed immediately. She sits, adjusting her tail to curl around her paws. Her heart is heavy as she surveys the now-lonely quarters; in a way, it’s like Cicadastar had never been here at all, and that seems… impossible. In life, her leader had the most commanding presence of them all, even moreso than WindClan’s tiny tyrant. He demanded respect, commanded attention with his every exaggerated gesture, his clipped tones.
Without him here, everything—everyone—seems emptier, but no one moreso than Smokethroat himself.
“I know it’s been a long time, but you look older than you should,” she observes, flicking her tail in a gesture reminiscent of Iciclepaw. She hopes to bring the twitch of a smile to his face, but she holds out no hope, nor does she expect that of her former mentor. “How are you holding up, truly?” She’s no good at this, but sorrow has writ itself across her deputy’s face and body. She wants to at least make her presence known.
@Smokethroat
Iciclefang waits respectfully for his invitation before setting paw into the den. The chill from the wind night has brought them is suppressed immediately. She sits, adjusting her tail to curl around her paws. Her heart is heavy as she surveys the now-lonely quarters; in a way, it’s like Cicadastar had never been here at all, and that seems… impossible. In life, her leader had the most commanding presence of them all, even moreso than WindClan’s tiny tyrant. He demanded respect, commanded attention with his every exaggerated gesture, his clipped tones.
Without him here, everything—everyone—seems emptier, but no one moreso than Smokethroat himself.
“I know it’s been a long time, but you look older than you should,” she observes, flicking her tail in a gesture reminiscent of Iciclepaw. She hopes to bring the twitch of a smile to his face, but she holds out no hope, nor does she expect that of her former mentor. “How are you holding up, truly?” She’s no good at this, but sorrow has writ itself across her deputy’s face and body. She wants to at least make her presence known.
@Smokethroat
, ”