private There will come a poet, whose weapon is his words || Nettlepaw

[Feathergaze]

Even though the moons were beginning to leave the yellowcough outbreak in the past for some, for Feathergaze that time would never be far away. Every breath of the wind carried to her the final whispers of Icebloom. The sweet scent of herbs and flowers echoed her life and health, the sour smells of owl pellets and decaying prey remains spitting memories of her death. The silver warrior had lost a piece of her heart when her grandmother had died. She couldn’t imagine that any amount of passed time would ever bring it back.

But she wasn’t the only one who had lost much during the sickness. Within the warrior den, her own mother and father still drew breath. They woke, they ate, they laughed, they cried. And Feathergaze with them, when there was time. She was lucky. She had had nearly 12 moons with Icebloom. Nettlepaw had seen far fewer sunrises with his mother, who had also succumbed to the plague. I can’t imagine. He was hardly more than a kit. He’s still hardly more than a kit. How he got up some mornings, Feathergaze didn’t know. To be so young, and know such pain, was surely excruciating. He’s strong. Nothing stands in his way for long. She believed he would make a fine warrior one day.

But everyone needed support, even the grumpy apprentice. He sometimes acted cold or standoffish, but that was all it was. An act. On her way toward the warrior den, padding up the river shore, Feathergaze noticed the young tom sat by the water’s edge. His barely-seeing eyes stared across the rushing boundary, looking unfocused. The silver warrior knew that look. Softly she padded nearer, trodding on a loose stone (purposefully for once) to alert him of her approach in case the snow had deafened her footfalls too much. A shock was the last thing he needed.
“Nettlepaw. Not ready for sleep just yet?” She sat down, tilting her head at him for a moment before looking up toward the stars. Toward silverpelt. The air was still, the sky was clear. What a beautiful night. “How… How are you doing?”


/ @Nettlepaw-​

 

[Nettlepaw-]

NETTLEPAW ♂
RIVERCLAN
APPRENTICE
FOUR MOONS
BLIND IN BOTH EYES
BIOGRAPHY AND TAGS
APPRENTICED TO PIKESPLASH
PLAYED BY SHEOGORATH​

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The night is cold, colder than he had ever known before. It bites at his nose and stings his lungs with every breath. Even beneath his thick coat of creamy fur, Nettlepaw can feel the chill that surrounds him. For now though, he is comfortable enough, seated upon the pebbled shores of the frigid river, where ice creeps along the shallow edges. One ear twitches as a stone is disturbed, a purposeful gesture, though unneeded. The apprentice's hearing was sharp enough that he could pick up Feathergaze's paw-steps long before she reached his side.

"Not yet." The boy responds simply, tail coiled around his cotton hued paws for warmth. The sound of the river is eerie, on this night. Nettlepaw is used to the sounds of croaking frogs and birdsong. Now, however, he hears only the cold wind, and the rush of the freezing water nearby. If life was a cycle of birth and decay, then leaf-bare certainly represented the aspect of death. The night is silent as the grave. The snow is colder than a long-fallen corpse. Herbs and prey are scarce, and frost creeps like a disease through what remains of the sparse undergrowth. There is a strange beauty in it, though. Something Nettlepaw could never truly understand. His clan-mates speak of glittering ice which reflects the shimmer of starlight. A mirror of the dead, it seemed. Now it made sense, what Reedflower used to tell him... that StarClan cats breathed icy mist from their jaws.

"I'm alright. Thinking about leaf-bare. And dying, I guess." He admits, vocals as dry as the surrounding air, though he's not intending to sound rude. "Mother used to say that frost poured from the mouths of StarClan cats when they spoke. And Iciclefang mentioned that the glitter of the ice and the snow is like that of the stars." He closes his eyes, blind as they are regardless, and draws in a frigid breath. "Leaf-bare seems so cruel, doesn't it? It seems like the world is dying. But then... everything comes back in the new-leaf. I guess... it's a cycle. And leaf-bare is important for... something? I don't know." Nettlepaw opens clouded eyes, peers sightlessly across the river.

"I was just thinking that if leaf-bare is important, then... so is death. For something I don't understand, you know? Or maybe I'm just... trying to figure out why Reedflower had to die. It seems like things have to die in order for new things to be born. Like the flowers and the grass in new-leaf." Maybe he was healing. The very thought that he could speak openly about such things without growing cold with rage, or heavy with grief. He shrugs his shoulders, blowing out a sigh as a gentle breeze tickles chilled whiskers. "Sorry. I guess I'm just trying to make sense of everything." Nettlepaw confesses, offering a small apology for his rambling.
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