- May 16, 2023
- 78
- 13
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⁀➷ // takes place directly following this thread and before they leave for the final battle!
It would do him no favors, he knew, sitting out here in the cold. The minutes ticked by ever closer to the sealing of Windclan's fate, but Foxglare sought out a moment of silence.
The freezing air bit at his ears and nose, but he found a sense of catharsis in the dull sting of it to distract from the stabbing pain that throbbed in his chest. He mulled over the ache, held on tight to stare at the grief and rage and guilt all tangled together and made a vow then and there. He would not forget this feeling, he would not cast it aside when it came to roost upon his sternum, and he would squarely shoulder his guilt as it made a permanent home upon him. He promised the stars, or the clan that made them a home, or to the night sky itself in all its distant judgement, that he would not forget.
The sound of snow crunching beneath heavy paws made his ears twitch back, suddenly very aware of the lingering evidence of grief in his bloodshot eyes. How long had it been since he'd spoken to Hound? And why was he so inclined to opt for silence when he couldn't find the right words to say to him, or anyone? Fox was glad he fought alongside them, he was glad he was not forced to face his father like so many others faced their kin. He was glad he was here.
He should tell him this.
"One more fight, an' it's done," he says instead. If this really was their last fight, then it would be the bloodiest one yet. Sootstar would not go down gently, and neither would they, it seemed an inevitability that more bodies would be littering the moors before any semblance of peace could be had.
"Are you prepared to die out there?" he would turn to face the huge grey cat for the first time. Surely the old man knew he wasn't invincible, how much thought had he put into the very real possibility that he'd have to be the one to give his life for Windclan's freedom?
It would do him no favors, he knew, sitting out here in the cold. The minutes ticked by ever closer to the sealing of Windclan's fate, but Foxglare sought out a moment of silence.
The freezing air bit at his ears and nose, but he found a sense of catharsis in the dull sting of it to distract from the stabbing pain that throbbed in his chest. He mulled over the ache, held on tight to stare at the grief and rage and guilt all tangled together and made a vow then and there. He would not forget this feeling, he would not cast it aside when it came to roost upon his sternum, and he would squarely shoulder his guilt as it made a permanent home upon him. He promised the stars, or the clan that made them a home, or to the night sky itself in all its distant judgement, that he would not forget.
The sound of snow crunching beneath heavy paws made his ears twitch back, suddenly very aware of the lingering evidence of grief in his bloodshot eyes. How long had it been since he'd spoken to Hound? And why was he so inclined to opt for silence when he couldn't find the right words to say to him, or anyone? Fox was glad he fought alongside them, he was glad he was not forced to face his father like so many others faced their kin. He was glad he was here.
He should tell him this.
"One more fight, an' it's done," he says instead. If this really was their last fight, then it would be the bloodiest one yet. Sootstar would not go down gently, and neither would they, it seemed an inevitability that more bodies would be littering the moors before any semblance of peace could be had.
"Are you prepared to die out there?" he would turn to face the huge grey cat for the first time. Surely the old man knew he wasn't invincible, how much thought had he put into the very real possibility that he'd have to be the one to give his life for Windclan's freedom?
- OOC: @HOUNDTHISTLE
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sun.fox.foxpaw. foxglare
— he/him. 14mo moor-runner of windclan
— a large, scarred white and golden tabby tom with grey eyes
— smells like wet oak and dewy sedge
— sounds like leon kennedy, with a vague texan drawl.
— the straight-faced and taciturn adopted son of houndthistle, lived as a twolegplace loner until 7 moons old, now a moor-runner of windclan. resilient, but not invincible. the continued stresses of war and a significant loss have led him to hold fast to his strict internal moral compass for fear of faltering.
— “speech”, thoughts, attack
— hs by ava, fullbody by antiigone
— penned by eezy
