- Jan 27, 2023
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[ cw: descriptions of birth ]
Bluefrost's paws had itched since the first stirrings in her belly; they had begun sometime around sunhigh, when some kind-hearted cat had brought her a piece of prey she could not eat. She steps around it now, delicately, the nursery's lone denizen, and slips through a camp clearing draped in twilight shadow toward the heather tunnel. If any cat notices her, they do not stop her to ask where she is going, and she does not readily offer an explanation. If stopped, she'll smoothly give some response about visiting the dirtplace; she will not let her Clanmates hinder her plans.
Seasons ago, when the snow had been high on the banks, when the sky had been clear and cold, Sootstar had left her Clan with her mate in tow to deliver her kits in the depths of her kingdom. Bluefrost is no leader, no deputy, but every pawstep she takes sends a surge of determination through to her chest. I am as much a part of these moors as any cat. More than some. And you will be, too, my kits. Your first breath will be free from illness. You will be born under clear skies.
The stars are beginning to protrude through milky purple. She lifts her muzzle and tastes the air, her pelt prickling wearily. Her Clanmates should not be outside of camp at this hour, but there had been badger sightings not terribly long ago, she'd heard, and she wants to be sure she does not encounter some ill-tempered beast as she travels. Her nicked ear flicks sideways. There is nothing, nothing but the sound of the wind sweeping through the meadow, nothing but the world opening up before her and her unborn children.
I wish I knew where you chose to settle, Sootstar, she thinks, but does not entertain the thought long. Her mother would curse that place from whatever shadowed corner her spirit festered, now. Her mother would spit and hiss at the sight of Bluefrost's children. She would, too, at her sister's kits — and oh, that thought leaves her more breathless than before. Cottonsprig. Have you given birth yet? Are you alive? Are they?
She pauses, her rounded flanks heaving. A twisting has begun somewhere in her core, as if her innards are seizing. She has come to a small opening in the earth, a tunnel that would protect her and her kits from the elements, but she stubbornly nestles right outside of it. StarClan will see you. I will not hide you in shadow. Bluefrost flicks cool green eyes onto Silverpelt, challenging them. They will know you as trueborn WindClan kits.
Her middle tightens. She gasps, unprepared for the depth of the agony, but she sinks her claws into the moor and anchors herself. Sootstar endured this. Cottonsprig, stars be good, endured it. I shall as well. She longs for Thriftfeather, longs for the comfort of her sister's pelt brushing against hers, for the company of what few friends she has managed to make since joining Sunstar's WindClan, but she has made her choice.
My kits will be born here. They will not smell of sickness. They will look upon StarClan, and StarClan will look back. Determination steels her, and through the hours of agony, she endures. It is not a labor like her mother's, extended into the dawn, but by the time her kits are born, the moon has risen high, and she is trembling with weakness. The scent of blood is on the air, and she fears to look to see how much she's lost. But the first mewl has her fears ebbing away. She nudges the first kit toward her belly, her tongue scraping away debris. My daughter. This first kit has wispy fur, fur that will thicken with age and nutrition. She is a deep gray, bearing the same smoke-colored pelt her mother does, her grandmother, but to Bluefrost's joy, she perceives flecks of gold scattered throughout.
Thriftfeather, she's perfect. Bluefrost touches her nose to her firstborn's head and, with a twist of her neck, guides the kit toward her belly. She does not have long before her middle is wracked with spasms once more, but her second daughter arrives almost before she can process the first. Another she-cat, this one with broad patches of her sire's gilded tabby fur, this one wearing subdued gray rather than smoke. My love.
By the time both kits are cleaned and secured at their mother's belly, the skyline has begun to lighten. Bluefrost can still see stars, though, and that is what she looks at when she murmurs her firstborn's name: "Sootkit." Nevermind her brother's fury; nevermind her mother's. "She will take that cursed name and bring honor back to it." She remembers Thriftfeather's hesitance: "That's a big legacy to put on a kit." She does not disagree, but it does not deter her. Sootkit, welcome to the world.
To the second daughter, she murmurs, "Asterkit." A field of violet-flecked flowers, the tenderness of a gently-held lizard, the softness of Thriftfeather's fur against hers, sunwarmed and dense. That is what her second child represents. There is no legacy here — there is only sweetness, missed opportunities, a wide open, star-filled sky.
Bluefrost lets their names linger over their tiny bodies for just a moment. Sootkit. Asterkit. Her daughters, her children, are safe with her.
When her ears catch the thud of pawsteps beyond the hill, her tenderness is replaced with a steely, maternal anger. Her lips lift, her teeth exposed to their roots. "Who is it?" Her pelt begins to bristle along her spine, her tail lashing behind her, even as she uses it to shield the newborns at her side...
Bluefrost's paws had itched since the first stirrings in her belly; they had begun sometime around sunhigh, when some kind-hearted cat had brought her a piece of prey she could not eat. She steps around it now, delicately, the nursery's lone denizen, and slips through a camp clearing draped in twilight shadow toward the heather tunnel. If any cat notices her, they do not stop her to ask where she is going, and she does not readily offer an explanation. If stopped, she'll smoothly give some response about visiting the dirtplace; she will not let her Clanmates hinder her plans.
Seasons ago, when the snow had been high on the banks, when the sky had been clear and cold, Sootstar had left her Clan with her mate in tow to deliver her kits in the depths of her kingdom. Bluefrost is no leader, no deputy, but every pawstep she takes sends a surge of determination through to her chest. I am as much a part of these moors as any cat. More than some. And you will be, too, my kits. Your first breath will be free from illness. You will be born under clear skies.
The stars are beginning to protrude through milky purple. She lifts her muzzle and tastes the air, her pelt prickling wearily. Her Clanmates should not be outside of camp at this hour, but there had been badger sightings not terribly long ago, she'd heard, and she wants to be sure she does not encounter some ill-tempered beast as she travels. Her nicked ear flicks sideways. There is nothing, nothing but the sound of the wind sweeping through the meadow, nothing but the world opening up before her and her unborn children.
I wish I knew where you chose to settle, Sootstar, she thinks, but does not entertain the thought long. Her mother would curse that place from whatever shadowed corner her spirit festered, now. Her mother would spit and hiss at the sight of Bluefrost's children. She would, too, at her sister's kits — and oh, that thought leaves her more breathless than before. Cottonsprig. Have you given birth yet? Are you alive? Are they?
She pauses, her rounded flanks heaving. A twisting has begun somewhere in her core, as if her innards are seizing. She has come to a small opening in the earth, a tunnel that would protect her and her kits from the elements, but she stubbornly nestles right outside of it. StarClan will see you. I will not hide you in shadow. Bluefrost flicks cool green eyes onto Silverpelt, challenging them. They will know you as trueborn WindClan kits.
Her middle tightens. She gasps, unprepared for the depth of the agony, but she sinks her claws into the moor and anchors herself. Sootstar endured this. Cottonsprig, stars be good, endured it. I shall as well. She longs for Thriftfeather, longs for the comfort of her sister's pelt brushing against hers, for the company of what few friends she has managed to make since joining Sunstar's WindClan, but she has made her choice.
My kits will be born here. They will not smell of sickness. They will look upon StarClan, and StarClan will look back. Determination steels her, and through the hours of agony, she endures. It is not a labor like her mother's, extended into the dawn, but by the time her kits are born, the moon has risen high, and she is trembling with weakness. The scent of blood is on the air, and she fears to look to see how much she's lost. But the first mewl has her fears ebbing away. She nudges the first kit toward her belly, her tongue scraping away debris. My daughter. This first kit has wispy fur, fur that will thicken with age and nutrition. She is a deep gray, bearing the same smoke-colored pelt her mother does, her grandmother, but to Bluefrost's joy, she perceives flecks of gold scattered throughout.
Thriftfeather, she's perfect. Bluefrost touches her nose to her firstborn's head and, with a twist of her neck, guides the kit toward her belly. She does not have long before her middle is wracked with spasms once more, but her second daughter arrives almost before she can process the first. Another she-cat, this one with broad patches of her sire's gilded tabby fur, this one wearing subdued gray rather than smoke. My love.
By the time both kits are cleaned and secured at their mother's belly, the skyline has begun to lighten. Bluefrost can still see stars, though, and that is what she looks at when she murmurs her firstborn's name: "Sootkit." Nevermind her brother's fury; nevermind her mother's. "She will take that cursed name and bring honor back to it." She remembers Thriftfeather's hesitance: "That's a big legacy to put on a kit." She does not disagree, but it does not deter her. Sootkit, welcome to the world.
To the second daughter, she murmurs, "Asterkit." A field of violet-flecked flowers, the tenderness of a gently-held lizard, the softness of Thriftfeather's fur against hers, sunwarmed and dense. That is what her second child represents. There is no legacy here — there is only sweetness, missed opportunities, a wide open, star-filled sky.
Bluefrost lets their names linger over their tiny bodies for just a moment. Sootkit. Asterkit. Her daughters, her children, are safe with her.
When her ears catch the thud of pawsteps beyond the hill, her tenderness is replaced with a steely, maternal anger. Her lips lift, her teeth exposed to their roots. "Who is it?" Her pelt begins to bristle along her spine, her tail lashing behind her, even as she uses it to shield the newborns at her side...
- ooc: —
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Bluekit.Bluepaw. Bluefrost, she/her w/ feminine terms.
— “speech”, thoughts, attack
— 18 moons old, ages realistically on the 14th.
— mentored by Sootstar ; mentoring Brackenpaw ; previously mentored n/a.
— windclan lead warrior and queen.sootstarxweaselclaw, gen 2.
— penned by Marquette.
lh blue smoke she-cat with white and emerald eyes. aloof, dignified, poised, haughty, composed, distant.