- Feb 16, 2024
- 84
- 16
- 8
A clan cat would have parroted that Starclan had been angered this afternoon, like the skyline ripped apart in fiery furor, with clouds massaging through the horizon. Hysterical and manic as they seemed to be, Privetfrost imagined them flittering amongst the rainfall in panic. Seeking guidance from the gods that had turned away their favors from the mortals, they stripped themselves of their agency and allowed the sheer terror of nature's wrath to envelop them whole. The Duskclan warrior found those beliefs to be trite, revealing oneself and their actions to be futile in the face of a never-changing, marble-carved fate. He abhorred that helplessness, those tired eyes looking up to the deities that never fully relieved them, as though sweetened water kept just out of reach of the prying, parched tongue. He inclined more towards the summer exhausting all of its tears and its rage before its departure, as though an irasicble beast built of welts and sores, of woes and weals lashed upon its body. And yet, it was of no fault of Duskclan's nor of their mercurial, figurative prejudice. Privetfrost comforted himself with the fact that his destiny was his own, and his hands molded his achievements. The tomcat needed no Silverpelt to deign him with greatness; he would seize it with the ardor of claws digging into prey-skin.
At the present moment, the wine-dark warrior stood just below the shade of a slightly-jutting rock within Duskclan's camp, light from the sky fading like a suparnal sunset's last throes. There was nothing divine about this thunderstorm, though, as the rainfall shot down from the welkin like heaven's bullets. Keen ears twitched as it caught upon the babbling of the rain, though it sounded more as a blaring roar of a dying beast. Clumsy, damp, and dark... Disdain crossed the young man's countenance at the thought of trudging through the aftermath, through the mud and the mold and the mire.
At the present moment, the wine-dark warrior stood just below the shade of a slightly-jutting rock within Duskclan's camp, light from the sky fading like a suparnal sunset's last throes. There was nothing divine about this thunderstorm, though, as the rainfall shot down from the welkin like heaven's bullets. Keen ears twitched as it caught upon the babbling of the rain, though it sounded more as a blaring roar of a dying beast. Clumsy, damp, and dark... Disdain crossed the young man's countenance at the thought of trudging through the aftermath, through the mud and the mold and the mire.
