Wolfsong's pressing paws had left an imprint on her bulging stomach. She knows she isn't allowed to leave camp alone, but she slinks away from the guard, her fur bristling with moonlight, her eyes glowing silver-green. Her heart hammers in her chest, and part of her implores her to find something to bring him — rabbit, hare, fieldmouse, anything — but her paws are weary, and her flanks suck into her middle with every few paces. She crests a hill laced with purple heather; she inhales, deep, letting the sweetness coil into her chest, but there's something stirring stiffly in her stomach.
They protest, now.
"I am taking you to meet your father," she murmurs her ascension; it's sharp, cool as autumn-winged air. Though the world before her is lush and green, she feels locked into a territory of changes.
I must see you, she thinks, and her steps wobble. It will be... it will be leaf-fall, if I do not find you... Her feet slip in the sand-barren earth. A burgeoning belly swings with every step, from side to side. She is suddenly aware of a coyote's howl chilling the night; she is suddenly aware of the open landscape around her.
Stars damn you, she swears internally, her pelt thickening and clumping along her neck and her tail. Emerald eyes sweep the thinning moorland, but she sees nothing, scents nothing...
I wish I could bring you a hare, she thinks, but her paws are sinking into the earth, and her flanks are heaving. I wish I could b...bring you a ... She stills, her feet heavy, her belly burdensome, a...
Bluefrost sinks to her belly; the sand grits against the bareness of her stomach.
Thriftfeather. She searches the shadows; anything could be out here, anyone. She thinks of Cottonsprig, lost and alone, and her eyes spill with silver tears. I am a fool.
She waits several moments, as though a blue-smoked pelt will appear from the gorse, as though broad shoulders will carry a gilded tabby figure toward her, but nothing happens at all. Crickets cry. Birds decree their exhaustion to the evening.
Bluefrost's eyes glaze with sadness.
You will not know how many kits I carry. You will know nothing. She bites her lower lip. The white-socked warrior shoves herself to her paws; she's shaky. She's tired; she's come too far. Sunstar, Scorchstreak, and Wolfsong all would have her meat for fresh-kill if they'd known her foolishness.
Still...
The breeze splits the fur on her pelt, and she embraces it, seeks his scent.
It's not there.
"Two," she murmurs to no one, to nothing. "Two, and I... I swear to StarClan, I will bring them to you..." She gasps, her ribs aching. She has a long walk home.
Bluefrost searches the shadows again. She is still in WindClan's territory. He will not be here. You cannot meet him.
She bares her teeth to the sky, to fate, and turns around. Every step is a limp. Every step is regret.
They protest, now.
"I am taking you to meet your father," she murmurs her ascension; it's sharp, cool as autumn-winged air. Though the world before her is lush and green, she feels locked into a territory of changes.
I must see you, she thinks, and her steps wobble. It will be... it will be leaf-fall, if I do not find you... Her feet slip in the sand-barren earth. A burgeoning belly swings with every step, from side to side. She is suddenly aware of a coyote's howl chilling the night; she is suddenly aware of the open landscape around her.
Stars damn you, she swears internally, her pelt thickening and clumping along her neck and her tail. Emerald eyes sweep the thinning moorland, but she sees nothing, scents nothing...
I wish I could bring you a hare, she thinks, but her paws are sinking into the earth, and her flanks are heaving. I wish I could b...bring you a ... She stills, her feet heavy, her belly burdensome, a...
Bluefrost sinks to her belly; the sand grits against the bareness of her stomach.
Thriftfeather. She searches the shadows; anything could be out here, anyone. She thinks of Cottonsprig, lost and alone, and her eyes spill with silver tears. I am a fool.
She waits several moments, as though a blue-smoked pelt will appear from the gorse, as though broad shoulders will carry a gilded tabby figure toward her, but nothing happens at all. Crickets cry. Birds decree their exhaustion to the evening.
Bluefrost's eyes glaze with sadness.
You will not know how many kits I carry. You will know nothing. She bites her lower lip. The white-socked warrior shoves herself to her paws; she's shaky. She's tired; she's come too far. Sunstar, Scorchstreak, and Wolfsong all would have her meat for fresh-kill if they'd known her foolishness.
Still...
The breeze splits the fur on her pelt, and she embraces it, seeks his scent.
It's not there.
"Two," she murmurs to no one, to nothing. "Two, and I... I swear to StarClan, I will bring them to you..." She gasps, her ribs aching. She has a long walk home.
Bluefrost searches the shadows again. She is still in WindClan's territory. He will not be here. You cannot meet him.
She bares her teeth to the sky, to fate, and turns around. Every step is a limp. Every step is regret.
- ooc: —
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Bluekit.Bluepaw. Bluefrost, she/her w/ feminine terms.
— "speech", thoughts, attack
— 17 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.
