- May 5, 2023
- 484
- 199
- 43
Tufts of fur plaster themselves to her forehead as a warm greenleaf rain mists down on their small patrol, thunder crackling through the air, charged with electric tension that seemed to suffuse each of the tabby's steps with a little more energy . . . or maybe that was just the effect of the cooling shower of droplets. Shredded ears flick backwards to dislodge stray drops, lone tea - green eye squinting into the rain as it quickly built itself from a light mist to a relative downpour, lightning sprawling across the sky in grasping white - glow claws that imprinted a scarlet afterburn on the inside of her eyelid.
" Twitchbolt would love this, " she remarks, glancing over at Quillstrike's distinctive chimeric pelt. She's familiar with the hulking blacksteel tom primarily via association; Twitchbolt is a long - standing friend, his frantic and frizzed - out pelt one of the first she'd followed into the trees. By extension, Quillstrike has her tacit appreciation for, in all his brooding silence, bringing a close friend very apparent happiness. Actually, in all her own . . . issues . . . she hasn't spoken, really spoken to Twitchbolt in quite some time.
As has become her custom, instead of thinking Wow! I should go catch up with Twitchbolt, and apologize for not keeping in touch, she settles for asking after him via Quillstrike instead. Increasingly blackened clouds drift across the sky and the wind howls whips of rain between the trees, the patrol slogging on through it, Bobbie without complaint as she scrapes feathery tawny fur out of her eyes. Pitching her hoarse voice upwards to be heard over the crashing of the summer storm, she asks, " How's he doing, anyways? "
" Twitchbolt would love this, " she remarks, glancing over at Quillstrike's distinctive chimeric pelt. She's familiar with the hulking blacksteel tom primarily via association; Twitchbolt is a long - standing friend, his frantic and frizzed - out pelt one of the first she'd followed into the trees. By extension, Quillstrike has her tacit appreciation for, in all his brooding silence, bringing a close friend very apparent happiness. Actually, in all her own . . . issues . . . she hasn't spoken, really spoken to Twitchbolt in quite some time.
As has become her custom, instead of thinking Wow! I should go catch up with Twitchbolt, and apologize for not keeping in touch, she settles for asking after him via Quillstrike instead. Increasingly blackened clouds drift across the sky and the wind howls whips of rain between the trees, the patrol slogging on through it, Bobbie without complaint as she scrapes feathery tawny fur out of her eyes. Pitching her hoarse voice upwards to be heard over the crashing of the summer storm, she asks, " How's he doing, anyways? "