- Jun 9, 2022
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- 293
- 63
Once, there had been nothing in his life more exciting than the Gathering. A cacophony of raucous noise and restless pelts, yes— but among them was gossamer - white hinged by shadow; a moon - lit grin. None of the noise had ever mattered, because why should he be bothered when he could be in love? Ear - splitting clamor has become an inconvenience. The buzzing of insects, unimportant, so long as he allowed it to be. It was something to talk about, rather than something to make his skin crawl. The main attraction had always ever been him; a taste of stardust for half a moon, and half a moon, only. In the presence of such luster, what could anyone else become, but a backdrop?
He had no need for any such theatrics any longer. The gathering was now once in a lifetime chance now, but a thing that simply happened. Boring, is what it has become. Dawnglare often found his own eyes glazing over in unhidden disinterest, a slight sway in his posture where he ought to be posed with his supposed fellow Medicine Cats.
Perhaps it was a habit, that had him searching for snow - white in the crowd, a task that only grew more difficult as the nights grew longer and longer. At times, he searched when he knew there was nothing to be found. Ruddy, pitch black, ashen grey, tawny stripes... He recalls the blood moon, drenching the then - empty clearing in red... He recalls keeping away from Sootstar's prying eyes, moor beast sat upon her perch. Tortoiseshell, smokey grey, pure white— and so, wrong, is what that was. Mitted paws; which way around were they?
Soot - dipped, and so, perhaps. Eyes shining blue, gold, brown, silver, sad.
...Had his eyes been so sad, before? He wonders, as if he did not know the answer.
" Mallowlark... " He's mulled over this for too long, now. He has let things get in the way, utter foolishness, on his part. Had Mallowlark not come here to prevent such a thing from happening again?
Dawnglare would find him on one clouded night, catching him with a sweep of the tail before either them could disappear within his den. The rogues had rendered it anything but private. Despite what may be believed, he did not love the smell of blood.
And She is encouraging, with the words She rumbles. The moon holds it's breath, as he pulls him to a silver corner of camp. And Dawnglare would press his head to his, looking attetively; looking at him. " You're troubled, " he says decisively, not bothering to ask first if he was. Patiently, poignantly, he waits.
He had no need for any such theatrics any longer. The gathering was now once in a lifetime chance now, but a thing that simply happened. Boring, is what it has become. Dawnglare often found his own eyes glazing over in unhidden disinterest, a slight sway in his posture where he ought to be posed with his supposed fellow Medicine Cats.
Perhaps it was a habit, that had him searching for snow - white in the crowd, a task that only grew more difficult as the nights grew longer and longer. At times, he searched when he knew there was nothing to be found. Ruddy, pitch black, ashen grey, tawny stripes... He recalls the blood moon, drenching the then - empty clearing in red... He recalls keeping away from Sootstar's prying eyes, moor beast sat upon her perch. Tortoiseshell, smokey grey, pure white— and so, wrong, is what that was. Mitted paws; which way around were they?
Soot - dipped, and so, perhaps. Eyes shining blue, gold, brown, silver, sad.
...Had his eyes been so sad, before? He wonders, as if he did not know the answer.
" Mallowlark... " He's mulled over this for too long, now. He has let things get in the way, utter foolishness, on his part. Had Mallowlark not come here to prevent such a thing from happening again?
Dawnglare would find him on one clouded night, catching him with a sweep of the tail before either them could disappear within his den. The rogues had rendered it anything but private. Despite what may be believed, he did not love the smell of blood.
And She is encouraging, with the words She rumbles. The moon holds it's breath, as he pulls him to a silver corner of camp. And Dawnglare would press his head to his, looking attetively; looking at him. " You're troubled, " he says decisively, not bothering to ask first if he was. Patiently, poignantly, he waits.
