- Aug 4, 2023
- 63
- 7
- 8
it's not my fault i have my father's eyes .
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶
The young warrior hadn’t meant to fall asleep, waking up to twigs, leaves, and flower petals decorating his long black-and-white pelt. He chuckled, paw slithering from beneath a bony frame to pluck a few pine needles from his helm, soft chuckles from a parted maw. A smile tugged at bitten lips, hallowed, freckled cheeks crinkling with the motion. “Pretty.” He hummed, chin tilted languidly, cupped between the divot of outstretched forelimbs.
Littlemoon breathed, bloodshot hues squinting at the harsh light streaming through the trees shadowing the camp. It was a nice day. One the freckled warrior didn’t share, haunted behind dull ocean hues, Littlemoon wondered what the point of it was.
How silly he’d been, thinking he’d prove to his mama that he was capable, of pushing boundaries and running himself ragged till he fell victim to frequent illnesses, turning him into a walking skeleton, lethargic and wishful. Previous mentors had come and gone. So were these petals. It was a useless thought, comparing life to flower petals, already wilting.
Pawsteps approached the long-haired warrior, drawing pools of liquid blue to the mouse dropped at his paws, stomach-churning at the sight. Littlemoon hummed, pushing himself upright, paper-thin skin stretching against the knobs of his spine, hidden beneath the plumage of black-and-white fur still riddled with flowers, leaves, and twigs. “Oh. Thank you.” He murmured awkwardly, uncertain. What could he say? That he wasn’t hungry? Did the kits eat? The queens? Someone more useful? Self-pitying was never a good look for you.
He breathed unevenly, drawing lips upward in a gentle smile, subtle beneath the mess of scarred flesh, blue irises crinkling, drawing freckled cheeks upward. “I’m sure one of the queens would like it more.” He offered tentatively, pulling into himself with a quiet hum, glancing toward the nursery. “Or the kits. If they can eat solid foods.” He murmured, helm tilted to avoid getting a pine needle in his eye.
Littlemoon breathed, bloodshot hues squinting at the harsh light streaming through the trees shadowing the camp. It was a nice day. One the freckled warrior didn’t share, haunted behind dull ocean hues, Littlemoon wondered what the point of it was.
How silly he’d been, thinking he’d prove to his mama that he was capable, of pushing boundaries and running himself ragged till he fell victim to frequent illnesses, turning him into a walking skeleton, lethargic and wishful. Previous mentors had come and gone. So were these petals. It was a useless thought, comparing life to flower petals, already wilting.
Pawsteps approached the long-haired warrior, drawing pools of liquid blue to the mouse dropped at his paws, stomach-churning at the sight. Littlemoon hummed, pushing himself upright, paper-thin skin stretching against the knobs of his spine, hidden beneath the plumage of black-and-white fur still riddled with flowers, leaves, and twigs. “Oh. Thank you.” He murmured awkwardly, uncertain. What could he say? That he wasn’t hungry? Did the kits eat? The queens? Someone more useful? Self-pitying was never a good look for you.
He breathed unevenly, drawing lips upward in a gentle smile, subtle beneath the mess of scarred flesh, blue irises crinkling, drawing freckled cheeks upward. “I’m sure one of the queens would like it more.” He offered tentatively, pulling into himself with a quiet hum, glancing toward the nursery. “Or the kits. If they can eat solid foods.” He murmured, helm tilted to avoid getting a pine needle in his eye.
thought speech
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