private vibrational halo | dawnglare

[Cherryblossom]

The swollen gray bellies of stormclouds sag low over the treetops. Cherryblossom knows it's just past sunhigh from how sleepy she's getting, burdened only further by the near-total absence of sun. It's going to rain soon. She itches for the safety of the camp hollow and the broad shelter of the dens. The sturdy pines she grew up with now seem to stagger at the edges of her vision, as though they could come drunkenly crashing down at any moment.

@DAWNGLARE , or maybe the higher powers that command even him, had insisted though. Maybe there existed herbs that only ripened in the muggy pre-rain air, or maybe they just bloomed around discontent. Cherryblossom isn't often struck with this kind of misfortune: having to hang out with the clan's fickle first medicine cat under the threat of storm.

She watches the sashay of his tail as she traipses behind him, her gaze resolute on their surroundings as his roots around in the foliage. He's not a bad-looking creature, creature though he may be. Though he rivals Slate and Silversmoke in size, his ruddy locks have a near-ephemeral smoothness to them, like the unfettered plumage of crows. From the silent distance she beholds him at, it's hard to remember why she'd been so miserable coming out with him in the first place.

It's only too tempting to ruin it for herself. "Dawnglare," she meows, quickening a little to catch up with him. "If you had to choose... who's your least favorite cat in the clan?" It's a strange and abrupt question, she knows, but the tom is a strange and abrupt feline.​

 

[DAWNGLARE]

Every step he takes is like a step atop the sun Himself, blistering like the Thunderpath baked in Greenleaf heat. Only, the damage is to his insides more than it is the pads of his paw. It rakes across his belly, picks at his ribs and gnaws at sinew... His attempts to escape the Grand Star are in vain, a song howled, but given no ears to receive it by. Dawnglare cannot pick herbs with the same ease he'd once had. Someone unknowing would likely not notice... Fireflyglow, sightless as he was, likely wouldn't either... Though if he was knowing at all was to be left for debate... (Evidently, though, some would rather trust them over himself. Knowing or not, they flock so eagerly to him, don't they?) ...Dawnglare is dallying, nosing at nothing and no one. He yearns for the relief he had felt across Twolegplace's post... What chance is there, that he could pivot that way instead?

His name is called, and it would take a moment to decide of the distraction is welcome, or not. His company had been easily forgotten, a shadow hiding in the crevasse of things so much more important than her. What a revelation it is, that she has no idea of the pain that he endures... His answering hum is clearly preoccupied. The rustle of grass goads the near breaking of a neck to her. A set of crystal-blues flare wide, as if anticipating an attack. He blinks once, twice. Her heritage is suddenly recalled as Dawnglare looks to the brushing of orange atop her head. He resists the urge to scrape it off.

Dawnglare wills himself to loosen, and perhaps the frivolousness of such a question aids him so... His gaze pivots away before the sun-cresting of her head can distract him too terribly. " My... my least favorite? " He supposes there was no need in asking his favorite. A quite obvious thing that was... though second-favorite would quickly be clouded skies, once again. He cocks his head in thought; dares not let his eyes drift wonderingly to the sun... Suddenly, he grimaces a smile; giggles, and its strange. " You know... if I could take any head without consequence, it would be quite a tie between your kind. I can't say I'd keep any of them, though. " It'd plainly make him quite sick to look at. The ugliness of such a visage, of course. Nevermind the gore.

Right away, one is fresh in his mind... " Slate, " he says. " ...Silversmoke, " An easy second pick. They were virtually the same. " Mmm... Greeneyes, " rattled with resurfacing furiousness, that one... It is a grudge he would never leave behind. Dare he say Orangestar? Perhaps that would not be accurate... " One of those three, yes, " answered with a casualness.​

 

[Cherryblossom]

Cherryblossom tries not to betray too much confusion. She regards him like the old tales of dogs: that they can smell fear, even from a tree-length away and upwind. Her question seems to take him aback, as though he'd forgotten she was there and her presence now is some ghastly materialization. She understands that, at least. Too often has she been mired in conversation with someone on patrol and missed the forest for the trees.

Her pelt relaxes when he finally looks away from her, only to prickle once more as a tinkling giggle looses from the odd curve of his maw. "My... kind?" she echoes, a scornful kind of puzzlement in her voice. Somehow, the play on words is not lost on her, though it takes her more than a second of thought to get it. "Oh." Her muzzle wrinkles when she does. She's never unaware that Dawnglare is larger than her, but if it came down to it, she thinks she's more than practiced in throwing down with beasts of his size. The blatant implications makes her stomach curl though; she hadn't asked the question with murder in mind. Even Chrysaliswing, vitriolic as he was, didn't deserve capital punishment.

She's hopes that it's just Mallowlark's influence on him, and that he just parrots him because he loves him, as he skips onwards. "Well, I knew that." Dawnglare couldn't cuff the heads off Slate or Silversmoke even if he had the legions of StarClan behind him. Neither of them were the best of patients either though, and more than just Dawnglare disliked them.

And poor Greeneyes: she's known since apprenticehood that Dawnglare's had the opposite of a soft spot for him, all for the color of his eyes. That was even worse than shaming someone for their kittypet background, in her opinion. The color of one's exterior could never be permanently changed, unlike their allegiance; it could only be molded and sculpted to the best of one's ability. Thankfully, she was born with a pleasing one. "What's wrong with the color green?" she probes carefully.​